


To Catch the Devil

by Jersey



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Assault, Attempted Suicide, Drugging, Kidnapping, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jersey/pseuds/Jersey
Summary: Set in early to mid Season 1After the confrontation with Nobu, Wilson Fisk catches up with the Devil of Hell Kitchen. Shocked by the true identity of the man beneath the mask, Fisk keeps him for his own. Meanwhile, Foggy and Karen struggle to keep themselves and the firm afloat while still holding out hold that Matt is out there, somewhere.





	1. Hours

**To Catch the Devil**

**Hours**

If Wilson Fisk were a betting man, he would have bet that Nobu and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen would eliminate one another in the snare so neatly laid for them. They are nearly evenly matched physically, of similar height, build, and reach. He has studied the eyewitness accounts and examined surveillance footage of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to know that he employs a distinctly blended repertoire of martial arts techniques and a flexibility of engagement. He has also born personal witness to Nobu’s training sessions in the man’s private dojo enough to know that the businessman’s styles vary equally.

However, Wilson Fisk is no gambler; he is a businessman. Wilson Fisk is a calculating man, a man who examines the probabilities surrounding any particular item or event and plots for all eventualities, no matter how seemingly impossible. Every possibility is assessed and appropriately dealt with to ensure that there can be not a single chance of failure. This is how Wilson Fisk has acquired his vast fortunes and extensive collection of loyal associates – legal and criminal.

It had been simple enough to bait the trap and wait for the Devil to come. He had sat back and watched with keen interest as Nobu and the Devil battled it out from the relative safety and distance of surveillance cameras. Fisk had been pleased to note that he had been correct in his estimates of both Nobu and the Devil, until the Devil had gotten a lucky drop on Nobu.

It is unfortunate that Nobu did not slay the Devil as well, but it is not outside the potential outcomes Fisk has considered. He is already prepared, with an army of men at his side and draped in his finest suit. Even Wesley is similar attired and armed for battle.

The Devil is an impressive and worthy opponent, unlike any other Fisk has engaged. Even badly injured and nearly flayed alive by the fight with Nobu, the Devil still fights like his namesake. Even after several blows from Fisk that the businessman knows would down any other, the Devil rises again and again, as though asking, _demanding_ more from him. Initially, Fisk thrills at the challenge, savoring the electric tingle of adrenaline surging through his bloodstream. Then, the Devil scores a swift stroke with one of Nobu’s blades, slicing through the bespoke suit exterior down to the fine armor concealed beneath.

Something snaps in Fisk, swallowing him whole. He rains down furious blows upon the Devil. The Devil takes it valiantly until Fisk boxes him on both ears sharply. He stumbles, falling to his knees. His head tilts oddly, as though disoriented by the blow. Fisk does not allow him the opportunity to recover. He brings both fists down on the Devil’s head in a sound, crushing blow that knocks the vigilante down. The Devil does not rise again, does not even stir.

Fisk circles on light feet, bouncing on the balls and beaming down at his fallen prey. It is almost too good to believe. Nobu and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen both at his feet. It is the perfect outcome to this evening. He stares down at the Devil and grins madly, wanting to remember this moment for some time to come. His nerves and muscles sing in rejoice at the thrill of the fight and the joy of such an easy victory. He abruptly kicks the Devil in his side, his heart trilling at a dull crack from the pliant body and the following stillness of what has been the thorn in his side for so very long.

It is Wesley - calm, cool, and entirely dependably level-headed Wesley – who brings Fisk back to his senses. “Well, then, shall we see who is behind the mask?”

Fisk blinks, momentarily dumbfounded before reeling back to his more rational sense, but he nods and gestures with a flick of his hand to the limp, unconscious body before them. Wesley crosses the distance with easy strides and kneels gracefully beside the bloodied man. He pulls the vigilante over, onto his back, before peeling the mask away to reveal the bruised and bloodstained face. Wesley gasps in what be surprise or shock, perhaps the only time Wilson has ever heard such a sound come from his confidant.

“What is it?” Fisk demands as he wipes the blood from his knuckles with a silken handkerchief.

Wesley shakes his head incredulously. “That’s not possible.”

“What?” Fisk growls under his breath as he tosses the ruined kerchief aside.

“I know this man,” Wesley breathes. “Matthew Murdock; the lawyer from the Union Allied case.”

Fisk furrows his brow. “So? What’s the big deal?”

His protégé cracks a strange, smug smirk. “The _blind_ lawyer.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It is decidedly _not_ Foggy Nelson’s morning.

First, he accidentally turns off the snooze button on his own alarm clock. One minute slip of his fingers causes him to oversleep by nearly a half an hour. When Nelson does jump awake, he has just enough time to shower, shave, and dress. While shaving, he cuts himself along the jawline like a teenager just learning; the cut stings badly, even after he rinses it liberally. After dealing with that, there is no time for breakfast.

Foggy grabs coffee on the run and, as an afterthought, a Danish each for the entire staff of Nelson & Murdock – all whopping three of them. Unfortunately, when he accepts his cup of coffee and the bag of pastries, a bit of coffee dribbles from the seam in the disposable cup where the plastic lid clamps down. The searing droplet is just a tiny amount of liquid, but it is enough to burn.

When he arrives at the office, Foggy briefly struggles to juggle his keys, his briefcase and the bag of pastries without burning himself again with his coffee. However, as the lawyer favors the coffee and the keys, everything else slips from his hands. The bag of pastries drops beneath the briefcase. Before Foggy can stop it, his briefcase slams to the ground and opens, crushing the pastries and spilling the contents everywhere. All of his notes and files scatter across the floor.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath before thanking his lucky stars that the coffee did not end up in the mess of things as well.

The door to the office creaks open, and Karen’s kittenish face pops out. She eyes him up and down, surveying the mess at Foggy’s feet. For a brief moment, the woman looks as though she might actually get a small chuckle out of his misery, but, then, her features twist into a wry wince of sympathy. She politely crouches down with him and begins to help him gather his things.

“Rough morning?” 

Foggy sighs as he drops the last of his files into the briefcase. “Looks like it.” He frowns when he spies the nearly flattened Danishes. “I brought breakfast.”

Karen snorts, stifling a laugh at Foggy’s expense. “I see that.”

Foggy flushes, the heat rising in his cheeks along with what he knows is a rather overt color as they gather up his things and deposit them on a desk in a messy pile. “At least Matt’ll appreciate the effort.”

Karen turns to the grab the messages, announcing, “Matt hasn’t gotten in, yet.”

“Oh.”

Foggy feels his lips turning down into a frown despite his best efforts to hide it. Matt has been uncharacteristically flaky ever since Karen’s case. The normally punctual attorney has been late often, frequently stumbling into the offices an hour or more after opening. He does not always answer his phone or call in his absences. Foggy has found himself increasingly worried about his blind friend and wondering if the stress of the new firm and their case load is getting to Matt.

“Has he called?” Foggy inquires listlessly, already well aware of the answer.

Karen shakes her head, the concern beginning to show in her wide, expressive eyes. “No. Not yet.”

Foggy plasters the best, most convincing and reassuring smile he can across his face and says, “I’m certain it’s nothing. Probably his stomach’s off again. You know how touchy he can be with food. I’ll check in with him in a bit.” Foggy dangles the paper bag with the flattened pastries in front of her and grins almost madly, “More for us anyway.”

The morning proceeds without further incident, save that Matt does not appear for work at all. Foggy waits until a little after 10:00 AM to call. Matt’s cellphone rings and rings, but he does not answer. Eventually, Foggy’s call goes to voicemail. This does not raise any alarm in Foggy; Matt is likely either still sleeping or in the shower. Foggy leaves a quick message asking Matt to call him. When Karen comes in to announce that it is lunchtime, Foggy blinks in surprise at the time and calls Matt’s cell again; the call again goes to voicemail.

“Uh, hey, Matt. I guess you’re really under the weather today.” He sighs overly dramatically. “It’d be really nice if you gave us a call to let you know you’re alive. Seriously. Call me.”

Foggy takes lunch with Karen; they grab a bite at a local deli and playfully bicker about _Game of Thrones_. When they get back, he begins work reviewing a series of permitting claims regarding buildings all wrangled under dummy holdings. Foggy distracts himself with his investigations. It takes some legwork and no small amount of negotiations to sort out exactly who holds what deeds and who has applied for what permits. It all points to Wilson Fisk, but absolutely indirectly. Nothing to hold him to, naturally, nothing so obvious. It is all really quite clever.

When Karen informs him that she is leaving for the night, Foggy sighs once more and calls Matt again, only to receive the familiar voicemail greeting. “Ugh, Matt, getting real tired of talking to a machine all day. Hope you’re feeling better, I guess. Call me if we’re not going to see you tomorrow either.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It is difficult to discern exactly where unconsciousness ends and awareness begins for Matt. The world returns slowly to him, in vague instances of sensory information slowly swelling to a painful crescendo of scents, sounds, and the fury of a battered body. His head swims, desperate to make sense of the cacophony in any reasonable manner. Matt swallows convulsively and gnashes his teeth against the smells and noises that buffet him and engulf him, stealing away any logic or sense.

_‘Breathe and think.’_ Stick’s words, not his, the rough voice chiding from a distant memory.

That is easy for Stick to say from the wide gulf of time and thought. Breathing proves to be an agonizing ordeal. Each breath in and out tears and pulls at sliced flesh that has just barely knit. Each inhalation sends flames of white hot agony licking up the side of his ribs. Each tiny shift and change of posture or position flares like lightning.

_‘Cracked rib. One. Right side. Second, no first floating rib,’_ a flicker from Matt’s rational mind informs him as the pain becomes clearer and more focused.

Something uncomfortable pickles at Matt’s mind; he does not remember the blow that caused the damage. Matt’s mind reels back, searching for anything to grasp. The last clear memory he bears is Nobu in his elaborate, garish scarlet. He remembers the fight, the searing kiss of Nobu’s blade and the heat of the fire. Then, things get somewhat muddled.

_‘Oh, forget that crap. S’not important anyway,’_ Stick barks curtly, his voice so achingly familiar and near. _‘Focus, Matty.’_

He closes his eyes, useless though they may be, and centers himself as Stick taught him. Matt stills himself enough to take stock of his body and his situation. Matt finds himself trussed and hung by his wrists. His shoulders and arms throb, suggesting that he has been hanging for some time, hours likely. The muscles in his chest pull taut with every breath, strained from his time suspended so. His body aches with various dull pains accentuated by the gashes from the fight and the rib. The tattered rags of his ripped shirt stick to the edges of the wounds, peeling away occasionally and stabbing at the slashes with fresh hurt. Every heartbeat pounds furiously in his skull, thundering in his ears and blurring reality at the edges; concussion.

_‘Deal with it later, Nancy girl,’_ Stick orders in a sharp hiss from memory, a frequent phrase from his days training with the shrewd old man.

Matt pulls in a few steadying breaths, calming himself and slowing his heartbeat enough to take in more of the world around him. The air feels cool against skin bared by shredded clothes, circulating gently about him; the lulling hum of climate control. It stinks of blood and stale sweat, but another smell lingers beneath the chemical bath of suffering that is his own rather piquant aroma. It is the sickly, crisp and sweet intended to mimic that of freshly laundered linens, twisting at his nose hairs, overwhelming to his overly keen senses but vastly better than any artificial air freshener. Upon studying it further, Matt finds it to be an expensive scent, with under currents of cool, stone scent – granite? No, marble. He is in an extremely different place than the stinking, rotting warehouse, clearly brought here during his unconsciousness.

Matt’s stomach cramps. It might be from the smells or from the concussion. He cannot be certain, and, so, the blind man abandons his study in sniffing.

He strains with his ears and finds a second heartbeat underneath the booming of his own heart echoing in his ears. Matt draws a small gasp of surprise. The second heartbeat does not deviate from its slow, steady thumping. It is large and deep. A man. A larger man. Ten feet away. Matt pauses, considering the sound and recognizing it; Wilson Fisk’s heartbeat.

“Fisk,” Matt growls through grit teeth at the man, bracing himself from the sound of his own voice slamming in his skull and desperately attempting to maintain the veneer of the tough, unflappable Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

When Wilson speaks, it is with genuine curiosity. “Tell me, how do you do that?”

“Do what?” Matt snarls bitterly.

“How did you know where to address me?” Fisk questions. “How did you know who I was?”

“Any idiot who watches the news in Hell’s Kitchen knows your name,” Matt snaps, his head buzzing.

Wilson steps back and forth, pacing. “See, even now, you track me so easily without seeing.” A shuffling of fabric; Wilson putting his hands in his pockets. “Who would have ever guessed a blind attorney to be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? It is perhaps _the_ perfect alibi.”

Matt freezes, his blood running as cold as Arctic waters. He had not even realized that the mask had been removed beneath the bruises and swelling to his face from the fight. How odd it must look to Fisk to see those sightless, vacant eyes following him effortlessly without trying. Matt’s stomach flips at the thought, anything in his gullet instantly curdling. He gulps fruitlessly at the air but finds there is not enough to quench his need.

“Oh, yes, we know who you are, Mr. Murdock,” the business addresses him formally and directly for the first time. “Wesley has had his suspicions, but I dismissed them, naturally. Imagine my surprise to find I was wrong.”

Matt steels himself briefly before grinding out, “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? Me? You’re joking.”

He senses the blow before it comes. The sudden shift in air pressure off his left side, the barely audible whoosh of compression. Matt stiffens before he can stop himself, jerking back against the ropes that hold him upright and narrowing escaping what would otherwise be a driving, debilitating punch to the temple. Wilson’s massive, meaty fist glides past his nose.

Wilson laughs, a haughty, booming chuckle that reverberates against Matt’s ribs unpleasantly. “See!” He claps two hands upon Matt’s shoulders, pressing down painfully against muscles already tense from the time hanging. “What’s your secret? You must tell me. How do you do it? Is it smell? Sound?” Something must register in Matt’s face, for Wilson cries out in almost childish delight, “It is sound, isn’t it?”

Matt shudders involuntarily, too exhausted, too startled, and too everything to stop himself.

It is all the answer Wilson needs, for he turns and calls out, “Wesley, if you would?”

A second person strides into the room, slighter than Fisk, but equally confidant and proud. It is Fisk’s assistant judging by the ticking of that damnable watch and the steady, light heartbeat. Wilson’s great big mitts wrap about Matt’s head, gripping him as a vise and crushing down on tender, swollen flesh. A second set of hands steadies him briefly before deft fingers grab his left ear. Then, something sharp, cold, and metallic stabs into his ear again and again. Matt screams out, but they pay his shrieks no heed, just jabbing at it again and again. He thinks someone is laughing in deep, booming sounds, Fisk perhaps, but the sound from his left side abruptly fades and muddles as though he has been plunged underwater.

Then, suddenly, the blissful, mercifully dark void of unconsciousness rushes forward to claim him once more.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Foggy does not begin to worry in earnest about Matt until the next morning when the blind man fails to show up for work or even call out sick. Only then does Foggy begin to feel the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, prickling uncomfortably. Matt has become unpredictable as of late, but he has never been so flat out undependable in the time they have known one another. Claxon alarms ring through him when his calls to Matt’s phone all go to voicemail one after the other, but he conceals it behind a coy smirk and a joke for Karen’s sake and promises to check in on Matt at lunch.

Outwardly, Foggy maintains the illusion of calm as he goes about his morning, but, internally, the attorney’s stomach coils and twists with worry. Matt is a capable man, yes, easily navigating even the seedier side of Hell’s Kitchen as confidently as his own apartment; Foggy has witness this for himself on countless occasions. Matt grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, learning to get survive without his sight. However, the fact remains; Matt is _blind_ and, as such, vulnerable. Any number of terrible things may have befallen his friend, or he might very well just be sick after all.

At lunchtime, Foggy excuses himself and heads over to Matt’s apartment. He pauses at the door and knocks, but nothing sounds inside. As a courtesy, Foggy calls Matt’s mobile once more and catches the muffled sound of the device repeatedly naming him as the caller. His heart briefly leaps into his throat, but Foggy continues to try to rationalize that Matt is likely just sick and possibly soaking in a hot bath.

Just hours after helping Matt move in, the two lawyers had celebrated over beers and pizza. Matt had played the grateful host, but Foggy had known better. Matt was thanking him in his own way for helping with the heavy lifting, organizing, and negotiating the new environment for him without outwardly stating it. To say such a thing would be to admit weakness, a thing desperately beneath Matt Murdock. Afterwards, Matt had presented Foggy with a key to the apartment, just in case. Foggy had added it to his keyring and forgotten about the key entirely.

Now, faced with the locked door and the queasy pit in his gut, Foggy locates the key but pauses before sliding it into the lock. Letting himself in seems something of a violation of privacy, but it cuts deeper than that. It feels like a direct offense to Matt’s self-sufficiency and capabilities. Foggy briefly weighs his conflicting need to check on Matt against the need to preserve his friend’s dignity.

Foggy decides to give Matt the opportunity to deny him, pounding on the door and bellowing, “Matt, it’s Foggy. I’m going to let myself in if you don’t. It’s going to be the weirdest bromantic moment in the history of bromance.”

He waits for several moments before calling Matt’s mobile and leaving the same warning there. When that still fails to rouse any moment or action from the apartment, he presses his ear to the door. Nothing. He counts to ten, giving his friend more than ample opportunity to come to the door or just shout in return. Still, nothing.

With a sigh, Foggy lets himself into Matt’s apartment and shuts the door behind him. He has been in Matt’s apartment several times, growing quite comfortable with the Spartan décor drenched in the neon glare of the billboard above. He recognizes that nothing to his mind is missing or damaged, no signs of a break in or distress of any kind. Yet, it feels abruptly wrong; the apartment feels too quiet, too still. He does not have Matt’s overly keen sense of smell, but the air tastes odd to him. Not stale as he might expect, but fresher and crisper, as though stepping into a fridge. It sends chills playing down Foggy’s spine.

Foggy swiftly checks the entire apartment, calling out repeatedly to Matt, but no one answers. Matt is nowhere to be found. Foggy shivers when he spines the open window and glances outside to the fire escape and the alley below, a part of him secretly terrified at the thought of spotting Matt’s mangled body below. Yet, there is nothing. Foggy lets out a sigh of relief and closes the window firmly.

However, that still leaves the lingering question of Matt’s whereabouts.

With a heavy heart, Foggy dials 911. After the initial greeting, apology, and the explanation that Foggy is not himself in immediate distress, he reports Matthew Murdock missing. An extremely sympathetic sounding woman from the call center takes the details, her voice giving a minute tremble when she asks Foggy to clarify the exact nature and degree of Matt’s disability. She instructs him to remain at Matt’s apartment without disturbing a thing and informs him that they have dispatched officers to his location.

While he sits and waits, a portion of Foggy ponders distantly the foolishness of television shows, films, and books. Everyone always points to a ludicrous yet seemingly requisite 24 hour waiting period to ascertain that a supposedly missing person is indeed missing. He knows the law better than anyone and understands the clock ticking away in the background of his mind with every passing second that Matt is missing. It is – in his humble opinion – a bullshit plot device that encourages reckless behavior in the event of an actual missing person. The quiet contemplation and mental rant serve to distract Foggy from the fact that his own friend has apparently vanished.

The police arrive in no time flat. They take his statement and ask him to send them the most recent photo he has of Matt. Fortunately, Karen and Foggy managed to drag Matt out for a quick drink a few weeks ago, and Foggy still has a photo on his phone from the event to e-mail. They ask a series of questions that all blur together in Foggy’s mind as he mechanically answers to the best of his knowledge. It raises his hackles when Foggy realizes that there are several questions about Matt’s lifestyle to which he has no responses, but the officers seem accepting and almost empathetic of his apparent shock. They request he stay in close contact and that Foggy hold Matt’s phone should the blind man return for it.

They sound optimistic, which gives Foggy hope enough to face Karen and deliver the decidedly unsavory news.

She blinks back angry tears and snarls in his face, “Of course they’re optimistic to your face! They’re in Fisk’s pocket! They’ll say anything to shut us up!” 

Foggy holds her as she sobs and swallows back his own fears. Karen is not alone in thinking such abhorrent things. Of course he has considered the possibility that Fisk is responsible and the large probability that the officers dispatched might have ties to the businessman. The attorney had dutifully skirted the subject when the officers asked if any former clients or opponents might have a grudge to bear against either of them, hiding behind legal jargon. Foggy had claimed privacy concerns but assured them that there were none to his knowledge granted the selective nature of their practice. The officers had seemed content at that.

He hugs Karen close and whispers this into her ear; she stiffens and stares with wide, glassy eyes. “Foggy Nelson, has anyone ever told you that you’re one scary man?”

Foggy smirks and shrugs, “Not recently.” His lips twist into a smirk. “Maybe not ever.”

“You are.”

He leans close, touching his forehead to hers. “Don’t worry about Matt. They’ll find him.”

Karen’s breath hitches. “What if they don’t?”

Foggy presses a chaste kiss to her hair. “They will.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

When Matt surfaces slowly again, he finds to his very great distaste that he has been handled again and moved. He does not move, remaining perfectly still so as to study this new position and environ before his captors notice. Someone has released the vigilante from his suspension and bound him to a chair instead. The seat beneath him feels and smells of cool steel, with a certain heft that suggests strength beyond that of a normal chair. Thick rope wraps about each of his ankles, binding them to the legs. Several lengths cross his lap and run under the seat of the chair, while more rope expertly circles his chest and the back of the chair. Thick cuffs lock his wrists to the structure as well, and a veritable noose loops tightly about his neck. All constrict tightly and uncomfortably, the cuffs chafing his wrists when Matt tests them lightly.

The severity and complexity of the binding is not the only surprising change Matt finds as he continues to analyze his own situation. He has been stripped of his clothing down to his boxer briefs and socks, allowing the ropes to cut into his skin. It does not surprise him; stripping him is a humiliation tactic, a means to demonstrate Matt’s weakness at his captors’ hands. Matt _is_ surprised to find that someone has cleaned, stitched, and bandaged his wounds; they want to keep him alive.

Matt swallows uncomfortable and tries to suppress his own, innate fear at the thought.

A door creaks open, and a familiar heartbeat slides with effortless, silent strides into the room. That awful ticking accompanies the heartbeat; Wesley’s watch. It sounds strange, oddly muffled in a way that rattles Matt’s nerves, but the pace and intricacies belong unarguably to Fisk’s associate; Wesley. Everything sounds watery and syrupy to him, but only along one side, his left.

“I know you’re faking, Mr. Murdock,” Wesley croons, his voice polished and prim, the epitome of high society manners and diction. “You can stop now.”

Matt grins briefly before lifting his head, only to instantly regret the motion. His head swims as the world lurches and flop violently about him. His stomach twists and revolts, forcing Matt to grit his teeth against the hot bile and vomit that threaten. His own heartbeat thunders in his skull, pounding viciously against his temples and behind his useless eyes with an insidious pressure upon his optic nerves. A concussion, undoubtedly, but something more. Through the disorientation, the muddled directional input of the sounds about him, and the splitting agony of his left ear, Matt puts it together. They have perforated his left eardrum, effectively crippling the vigilante and his senses until the damage knits its self.

Wesley, mercifully, says nothing as Matt struggles to still himself and orient once more. The lawyer hangs his head, mindful that his original position and stillness had not yielded such disastrous results. It takes several minutes of long, deep breaths to bring himself back to something akin to focus. When clarity does return to him, Matt has the sinking suspicion that Wesley has born silent, curious witness.

“Better?” Wesley asks, his voice a cruel mimicry of genuine concern.

Matt spits and grinds out, “Yes, thank you.”

Wesley’s footsteps draw nearer, but they are hard to track exactly. The walls echo too much, and, without his left ear, there is no way to pinpoint their location. Matt struggles in vain to follow Wesley’s movements for a moment before giving up entirely. The endeavor is pointless anyway. With no means to free himself, it is of little import where Wesley moves; Matt can do nothing to stop him.

Wesley circles Matt, the sound of his voice entirely unsettling as it swells and diminishes about him and his good ear. “I wanted to have this moment to speak to you privately, Mr. Murdock, before all the unpleasantness you must surely know is to follow.”

“Scare tactics do not become you,” Matt forces himself to taunt back.

Wesley pauses, as though pointedly collecting his thoughts or merely allowing the vigilante to stew over the meaning of the quiet. “I have been well informed that such pedestrian threats would prove fruitless against you.” The businessman’s hand falls heavily upon Matt’s bare shoulder, underscoring the threat behind his words. “No, no, this is not about intimidation.”

“Then, what?”

Wesley’s smile is all too apparent in his voice. “In time, you’ll come to understand, but not yet. Not now.”

Matt clenches his teeth, unsettled by the oddly intimate contact of Wesley’s pale against his naked shoulder. “Why the theatrics, then?”

“Because I wanted you to understand, Mr. Murdock, that this is not personal.” He must sense Matt’s confusion, for he laughs slightly. “No. This is nothing between us, although it is going to feel that way, I’m sure.” Wesley pats Matt’s shoulder. “It’s just business. You understand, don’t you?”

Futile anger and bitterness flare up in Matt. “Sure. I understand.” He bristles as Wesley rubs his shoulder too familiarly for his taste. “If this is the part where you tell me this is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me, can we skip the formality? I’ve had something of a trying night.”

Matt can hear Wesley’s smile. “Of course.”

The smile remains long after the first blow comes.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

After the first few hours, when Foggy grows tired of waiting and thoroughly sick of the feeling of complete helplessness, he decides to make himself useful the only way he can. It takes little more than ten minutes for Foggy to cobble together a decent enough “MISSING” poster. It actually takes longer for him to Google “MISSING” posters to understand exactly what information needs to be on such things and put together the requisite components. To his defense, the attorney has never had a need to create anything like this, nor has he ever truly paid them any merit.

No. That’s not entirely true. In 2001, Foggy found himself face to face with walls covered with posters lining various streets, parks, and subway stations through the City of New York. Yet, those were haphazard things, many hastily hand-written and photocopied by hands already shaky with shock and grief. He had drifted from poster to poster, unable to tear his eyes from the photographs of smiling faces, of mothers and fathers with their children, of brothers and sisters, of all sorts of humanity lost. Foggy had been exceptionally fortunate not to know anyone among the missing, but just seeing those posters had hurt to the core, like a personal blow hand delivered to each and every citizen of the City of New York. However, he’d been a teenager then, barely a child, and Foggy’s memory of those posters are of the sorrow and the faces, nothing relevant.

Then, again, in 2012 and the wake of the incident that has largely become largely known as the Battle of New York, countless posters once again plastered the city. Foggy and Matt had still been at Columbia, too far north to truly see any of the battle, but, just a few months later, they had gone together for the interview at Landman and Zack. He had always heard how fortunate New York had been, how lucky to have sustained “limited casualties.” It had not made facing the flyers hanging everywhere any easier, nor had it made describing them to Matt any easier when the blind man inquired.

Foggy’s poster begins simply with bold, red letters at the top of the page.

_MISSING PERSON_

_HAVE YOU SEEN MATTHEW MURDOCK?_

Below that, Foggy has put the best photo he can find of Matt. He has a limited selection of photos to choose from. Most of his photos have Matt in his tinted glasses – something not entirely useful for identification. He ends up using the photo from Matt’s student ID, when Matt reluctantly shed his glasses instead of arguing with the woman taking the photos so Foggy could continue to flirt with her. It is a decent enough picture of Matt for identification purposes.

Under his photo, Foggy lists as much information as he thinks appropriate. He includes Matt’s date of birth and the date he went missing. He lists Matt’s hair color, eye color, and skin tone. Foggy ventures guesses at Matt’s height and weight; he has never been any good at such things. Foggy includes his own personal contact information, as well as contact information for the firm, hoping it might seem like they have money to furnish a reward even though Foggy is well aware otherwise.

As an afterthought, Foggy includes a brief paragraph at the very bottom.

_Matt was last seen leaving the offices of Nelson & Murdock on foot. He has made no contact with his associates or the police. Matt is blind with no light perception but capable and extremely familiar with New York City. _

‘No light perception’ had been Matt’s rather clinical and dry manner of describing the severity of his disability when Foggy inquired one, lazy drunken night after their last midterm their first semester. His tone had been sober and somber in a way that left Foggy wondering if someone described Matt’s condition to him in that manner as a child. It is a cruelly cold wording.

Thus satisfied with his posters, Foggy prints one and struggles for the better portion of an hour with their decrepit, archaic copy machine before conceding failure and making about 200 copies at a local print shop. Then, he takes them out and hits the streets. He tapes one up at every corner in Hell’s Kitchen. Foggy tromps into every business in the Kitchen, explains the situation, and asks the managers to hang up a poster inside. They invariably agree and hang the posters in prominent places. Yet Foggy can tell from their expressions on their faces that it is out of pity and sympathy; they do not expect Matt to be found alive.

Foggy takes a break to call the police for any updates, only to receive none. Then, he continues to flyer the town until dinner. He grabs a quick bite and pops into the few dives that know their faces. The sympathy from the bartenders, bouncers, and servers that they know actually touches him. The attorney knows that he will be the first they call if anyone sees Matt or hears anything credible, just as much as he knows they will keep the posters up until Matt is found.

After that, there is nothing to be done but return to Matt’s apartment, check the mail, plug in both his and Matt’s phone, and wait.

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Wesley continues to surprise and perplex Matt. Matt has always known Wesley to be a cunning, ruthless man, capable of exercising great evil in the name of his employer, but the lawyer never expected the businessman to be capable of such violence. While his bearing, respiration, and circulation all speak of a physically fit man, Matt also never considered him physically capable of such violence. However, to be fair, that is precisely the manner by which Matt Murdock has escaped noticed as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen for so very long.

What does surprise Matt is Wesley’s impressive restraint. The businessman beats the attorney savagely, yes, but he does so with his fists. The punches are deliberate and aimed, all targeted at Matt’s chest and abdomen. Not a single strike lands anywhere near his face, not a one intended to disfigure him in the slightest.

Initially, the focused precision of the punches irritates Matt. Every blow Wesley drives knocks the air from his lungs and sends him momentarily gasping for breath before the next punch hammers his ribcage. He almost wishes Welsey would hit him in the face to offer him some respite and a chance to breathe. Yet, Wesley retains his aim through it all.

When one of his ribs cracks with a sound that is painfully audible to Matt’s right ear and practically nonexistent to his left, Wesley’s consistent aim begins to actually _frighten_ the vigilante. Criminals are never so considerate to spare facial features unless there is a highly specific reason. Wesley is protecting him from gross damage, meaning this is not simply meant to be about torture. Fisk has further plans for his captive, and that simple fact troubles Matt.

Eventually, Wesley must either tire physically or grow bored with Matt’s quiet enduring, for the businessman stops. He looms over his captive, his respiration and circulation still easy and even, as though the beating has barely cost any exertion. Wesley’s sheer stamina and control are powerful, almost frightening things. The businessman straightens himself, adjusts his tie and leaves Matt to drift in darkness and agony until the familiar void of his conscious existence blurs with the

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In time, when the night darkens everywhere else but beneath near blinding glare of the billboards beyond the windows and when exhaustion begins to slowly, inexorably claim him, Foggy concedes and toes off his shoes. It feels decidedly inappropriate to help himself to Matt’s bed, a distinct invasion or violation of personal space and privacy that Foggy doubts Matt would tolerate, so he opts for the couch. It is a fairly comfortable couch, decent enough for a single night’s sleep.

Sleep never fully finds Foggy; instead, the lawyer dozes in small fits on and off through what remains of the night. Nightmares plague his sleep, intermittent dreams of Matt. Foggy has never known Matt to be anything but capable and strong, but the back of his consciousness cannot help but whisper terrible thoughts as soon as he closes his eyes. The City is dangerous and filled with all manner of unsavory individuals who might take advantage of someone as vulnerable as Matt – Wilson Fisk at the top of the list.

When dawn finally breaks and Foggy can stand the pretense of slumber no longer, he rises and checks both phones. Nothing. He also checks his e-mail with a sigh. Nothing. Not a word.

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The incessant ticking of that loathsome watch announces Wesley’s presence before his arrival, jarring Matt back to consciousness. The brief warning affords him but a few moments for the man actually enters Matt’s cell for the vigilante to assess himself. He had meditated for a time before falling into a light doze, but that limited slumber has yielded no true rest. His body aches in various places, most notably his left side where Wesley cracked a rib on his previous visit. His head throbs with dehydration, his mouth sticky and dry with need.

“Good morning, Mr. Murdock,” Wesley greets formally as he enters the room. “I trust you slept well?”

Matt chuckles mirthlessly and sneers, “Bed was a little stiff. No mint on my pillow or turndown service. Might have to lodge a formal complaint with the concierge.” He catches a sound from Wesley that might be a laugh, and, so, Matt digs in tighter. “And I have some concerns about accessibility.”

“I’m sure we can accommodate all of your concerns.”

Matt senses the change in the air micro fractions of a second before anything happens. He feels the charge building, the hairs on the back of his neck and down his arms raising perhaps only microns in response. He smells the acrid tang of ozone, sharp and twisting at his nose hairs – the scent of heat lightning on a scorching August night. It is the hazy burn of faulty wires and the metallic crisp of electricity arcing.

That lightning touches down on his side, mere inches from the fractured rib, twisting at his every nerve. His body involuntarily clenches in response, his muscles clamping down in every inch of his body. He grits his teeth against the screams that threaten in the back of his throat. His body shrieks instead in futile agony.

When the electricity abruptly cuts away, it takes Matt’s nervous system several seconds to recalibrate from the shock. His synapses flare and fire discordantly before eventually settling once more. The intense ache from each and every one of his muscles remains. As does the steadiness of Wesley’s heartbeats echoing in Matt’s all too keen ears along with the thundering of that damned watch.

Distantly, a portion of his mind is calculating exactly what manner of device Wesley has employed against him. Based off of the sensation of two, small hot burns on his side, a cruel punctuation to the punishment, and based upon what limited sensory information makes any sense of the actual event, Matt concludes it to be a tazer of some form. He sorts that information and files it as relatively useless knowledge. It becomes increasingly trivial as Wesley touches the metallic prongs to his skin again and again, sending white hot electric arcs coursing through his body.

It goes on for what feels like days, but Matt knows somewhere in the distant part of his mind that it is somewhere between minutes and hours. Wesley shocks him until his body throbs in constant agony and until he pisses himself like a dog. And, then, mercifully and perhaps miraculously, Matt’s suffering and humiliation achieve some sort of plateau sufficient for Wesley’s masochistic taste. The businessman stops then and leaves him.

Matt lingers in an exhausted haze briefly before slipping into the comforting void of meditation. It is a practiced reaction, one carefully cultivated and reinforced by Stick. The stillness wraps about him like a warm blanket, downy and soft, swaddling his mind against the physical reality of his body’s condition. It is a refuge against the world and all its many indignities against him. He lets the nothingness take him, stilling his heart and respiration, bringing brief respite from the pangs that are his broken ribs.

Then, quite suddenly, Matt is aware of a presence. It jerks him from the depths of deep meditation back to full alertness like a hot brands. It is a steady, heavy heart, thumping as a deep bass drum in his right ear. It is a weight in the room, a bulk of warmth, muscle, musk, and the aroma of entirely expensive linen contrasting sharply against the acrid tang of his own urine.

“Fisk.”

The hulking businessman greets him with almost laughable manners. “Good morning, Mr. Murdock.”

Matt sniffs hotly at the utterly incongruous behavior. Not long ago, Fisk had been beating him to near death with his own fists. Now, Fisk strolls casually and speaks with the smooth, scored tones of the perfect gentleman. It is a farce, and one from which Matt finds no humor when his head and body ache so fiercely.

“I’d thank you for your hospitality, but you haven’t exactly been very hospitable,” Matt growls through his teeth, thoroughly irritated by it all.

The vigilante can _hear_ the smirk forming on Fisk’s face. “I’m here to change that.” He moves, swirling something liquid in his hand – a cup of something, before approaching and offering, “You look thirsty, Mr. Murdock.”

Fisk draws nearer, close enough for Matt to catch the smell of whatever he holds in the cup. It smells clean, like water with nothing added. There are, of course, all sorts of odorless and tasteless things that Fisk may have added. Fisk is a man with many resources, quite capable of securing all manners of narcotics and toxins that could slip beneath even Matt’s keen detection until too late.

Matt clenches his teeth and shakes his head. “Fine, thanks.”

Fisk purrs in his ear. “But of course. Perhaps later.”

Matt expects the businessman to carry on with his torture, but, to the lawyer’s very great surprise, Fisk leaves him alone to his myriad of hurts and the dubious calm of solitude. It is an unsettling feeling that makes Matt feel as dizzy and uncertain as his perforated ear drum.

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Foggy dutifully contacts the police on the third day before setting out to continue his own search. The police remain polite and hopeful. They inform him once gently but firmly that there have been no leads. Even when he presses Brett, the officer can only offer solemn apologies.

Then, on a whim, Foggy begins to call the local hospitals. At the opening of each call, Foggy begins with introducing himself and explaining his situation. Then, he faces the blank wall of reception staff citing patient confidentiality as an explanation for their inability to release any information. Afterwards, Foggy is forced to lie to each in turn in a way, claiming himself as Matt’s medical proxy and slinging a myriad of legal threats their way. The attorney knows he has no fiscal means to hold the hospitals to any of his threats, but they do not know it. They each cave in turn, search their records, and find no patients listed as “Matthew Murdock,” “Matt Murdock,” or even “John Doe.” That takes until lunchtime, offering blissful distraction and the illusion of accomplishment until then.

After lunch, Foggy begins to scour Hell’s Kitchen. New York City might be a major city, but the neighborhoods can be surprisingly cloistered. Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock are fairly well known in the Kitchen for their habit of taking pro bono cases or accepting home cooking as payment. Foggy doesn’t even need to bring a photo of Matt to ask around. Unfortunately, no one they know has seen him, but all of their previous clients insist they will keep an eye out for the errant, blind lawyer.

Another day closes with no progress. Foggy tries not to think of how 72 hours has passed. He tries desperately not to consider how their chances of finding Matt alive and whole decrease exponentially with time. It is too sobering and too depressing to consider.

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When Wesley returns next, it is with three others – all large, hulking, and capable men judging by the sounds of their heartbeats, their footsteps, and their movements. Matt tracks their motions, but it is difficult with only his right ear. His left ear feels as though it is packed with cotton, the sound muffled and distorted. Even If he could hear, the sound is too much after the stillness, the utter cacophony deafening and dizzying.

They untie him from the much reviled chair, and, in the blink of an eye, Matt is up swinging despite the dull ache in his muscles from sitting too long. However, it is without any of the grace and skill Matt is accustomed to bearing. He stumbles drunkenly, his head swimming from the motion alone. Still, Matt throws desperate punches. His aim is far off, Matt knows it. The strangers laugh haughtily as Matt staggers and struggles to strike one of them before hooting when the lawyer actually trips and falls face first to the ground. Then, they rush him, grabbing Matt and hauling him up. They bind his hands with cold, metal cuffs and hang them from somewhere above him, stringing up the vigilante like a turkey.

They tear away his soiled boxer briefs and his socks, and Matt grits his teeth. He has always known somewhere in the back of his mind that sexual assault is a distinct probability. He knows that it would be an extremely personal and damaging attack for anyone. The vigilante steels himself against what he knows is to come, for the sickly feel of groping hands roving his body, for the feel of teeth, the heat of alien breaths, and punishing flesh. Yet, none of that comes.

And, then, it is just Wesley and Matt again. It is almost merciful in a way, after the chaos of so many bodies in such a small space. Matt can breathe again without them and allow himself to relax with the slow, even draw of Wesley’s respiration and the steady, predictably sharp tick of his watch. Wesley must sense this, for he stills long enough for his captive to settle once more.

Then, there is the heavy slam of a tsunami bearing down upon him. Matt grits his teeth to keep from screaming out in shock as icy water beats down upon him with utterly torrential force. It scours at his flesh, blasting away at his skin. Yet, Matt will not deny himself even the smallest of measure of liquid to slake his increasingly desperate thirst, angling his head so that he might gulp at the frigid water.

After the water cuts off, the torture begins anew. Wesley takes what feels like a steel rod to Matt’s lower legs. He swings with an eerie precision and ease. Matt’s pain fogged mind wonders absently if he golfs or plays cricket. Then, quite abruptly, something snaps in his right leg with a meaty crunch that sends shivers down his spine and licks of fire searing up his nerves. Matt cannot stifle his own shriek, nor the keening howl of agony that follows when his own bones grate against one another with a grind audibly to the vigilante’s sharp hearing.

Wesley’s heartbeat never falters, and there is something absolutely sinister and terrifying to that.

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When all of Foggy’s efforts appear in vain, he retreats to the comforting, familiar grime of Josie’s. The gruff, tough bartender surveys him with a shrewd yet maternal eye, taking in his haggard appearance, his thick stubble, and his rumpled, wrinkled clothes. On any other day, her rather unique brand of sympathy and compassion would draw out a good-natured barb from Foggy, but, today, he has not the heart. Josie must sense this, for she makes no comment either. Instead, Josie fishes around behind the bar, finds a dark, brown bottle of rather suspect content with not a hint of a label, and sets the thing before him.

This small act does not escape the notice of the other patrons. The trio of staff at Nelson & Murdock might be regulars at Josie’s, but they stand out in their prim and proper business clothes amid the rougher clientele. Their presence has been just another predictable staple in Josie’s place, accepted and welcomed in a way. Yet, none of the other regulars has ever spied such an outright act of kindness and sympathy from the seemingly indomitable Josie.

Foggy merely shrugs off the stares, cracks open the bottle, and takes a deep swig. The liquid inside burns his throat like liquid fire. It is hot and cold impossibly at the same time, and peppered strangely. He knows instantly from the first taste that this is Josie’s long rumored private stash – purported moonshine from the grand masters of Appalachia.

Across the bar from him, Matt’s photo stares sightlessly back from one of Foggy’s missing posters, smirking slightly and knowingly. Foggy takes another deep drink and turns away. He needs to drink, but the lawyer cannot bring himself to drown his own sorrows when faced with that. Instead, Foggy leans his back against the bar, stares out impassively at the other bar patrons, and drinks the bottle dry.

At the end of the night, when Foggy is thoroughly drunk, Karen drifts elegantly to his side. She does not greet him initially. Instead, the woman glides to his side and offers brief pleasantries with Josie, almost ignoring her employer before turning to him and folding her arms across her chest. For a brief moment, Foggy blinks stupidly at the blonde as she just glares knowingly in return in mock chastisement before he realizes that Josie must have called Karen behind his back to come pick him up. It stings uncomfortably as shame flushes his cheeks with heat.

“Come to pick up a hot guy?” Foggy tries to tease but fails miserably.

Karen snorts at him and shakes her head wryly. “It’s kind of hard to keep your job if your bosses are de….”

The blonde freezes, the color draining from her face. Her features pull into a weird expression, something awkward and embarrassed as her eyes go misty. Foggy knows what she meant to say, and he knows Karen meant it as a joke alone. It still cuts.

He puts a hand on Karen’s slender shoulder and squeezes warmly. “It’s okay, Karen.”

She sniffles and shakes her head. “No, it’s not.”

Foggy has no words of comfort for her. Instead, he allows the slender woman to take him by the elbow and ferry him from the bar. He says nothing the entire long walk back to his apartment, where Karen deposits him in his own bed. He can only chew his lip as she pulls the shoes from his feet and sets them beside the bed. He can only curl over on his side as Karen sets a bottle of aspirin and a glass of freshwater on his bedside before slipping from his apartment.

He can say nothing because Foggy knows it is true.

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Time stretches and pulls for Matt with the sinews of his arms as he hangs by the wrists; it seems a viscous, fluid thing, twisting into a dark oblivion. There is no means for him to count the time, nothing to indicate its passage and flow. His cell is remarkably sealed off from the rest of the world, soundproofed to prevent screams from escaping, no doubt, silencing the city beyond its walls as well. He has none of the normal ebb and flow of the city around him to orient himself and establish any manner of baseline.

His arms ache terribly the longer time goes on, his muscles burning from the strain of his own body. Yet, that is of little concern to Matt considering the myriad of injuries and injustices that plague him and the fiercely exquisite agony clawing at his broken leg. In time, he tires of pulling himself up by sheer will to keep the weight from his leg, and, then, Matt allows himself to be dragged down by gravity, sagging against his unyielding restraints. The metal chafes against the thin skin there and rubs uncomfortably, yet, for a brief time, Matt accepts the discomfort as equal exchange.

Matt relaxes oddly into the sensation, drifting in a way. The exhaustion and the pain pulls at him relentlessly despite his many protests. Eventually, he slips into a hazy sort of dose, not sleeping but certainly not conscious.

The vigilante lurches awake to a terrible tightness in his chest, a heady fire lapping at his ribs, and the decidedly unearthly sensation that he cannot exhale. Matt flummoxes, attempting to gasp madly as his head swims madly from the spent air in his lungs. He staggers, planting his right foot down to stand, only to have it crumple beneath him in pain. It is only fortunate then that he cannot exhale properly, for it steals the shriek from Matt’s own lips in a dubious mercy. He forces himself up on his left foot, and, then, he can breathe again. He gulps desperately at the cool, crisp air, savoring every sweet bit of it.

As Matt’s head clears, he remembers, and it almost makes the vigilante want to laugh. Christ. Matt and the rest of the children at the orphanage had all studied their Catechism well. The other boys had been quite taken with the stories of the crucifixion, while Matt did not find anything of interest in the tales of Christ’s suffering, perhaps because he already seen such sorrows in his world. The other boys had grilled the nuns, asking all manner of unsavory questions about the exact manner. Despite his own disinterest, Matt had learned it all the same. People did not die of blood loss during crucifixion, nor did they last long enough to suffer dehydration or starvation typically. Strain on intercostal muscles due to the prolonged suspension restricted exhalation; they suffocated on the cross.

The thought sobers the lawyer, but he can do nothing. Instead, he can only stand there and try to keep from dozing once more. However, it is very hard, and he is already so very tired. Matt does not even realize he is falling once more until he is gasping awake once more. He does not know how much time passes in this manner, oscillating wildly between a fitful sleep and abrupt waking.

There are moments when Matt surges upright to breathe when he is instantly aware of a second presence in the room. A steady heartbeat, thick and meaty, accompanied by low, steady breaths. Fisk. The bigger man does not move, does not flinch; the businessman seems content to merely observe. Fortunately, his awareness of such visits by Fisk are quite limited.

Then, during one moment of clarity, Fisk addresses him directly, almost cordially. “Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Murdock?”

Matt’s stomach growls fiercely, twisting with need as soon as the sound of liquid swirling in a glass piques his interest. He has nothing to eat nor drink since...... when the vigilante considers it, Matt honestly has no concept of when he last had either. Yet, taking something from Fisk seems a mark of weakness or even betrayal of a kind. He tries to decline verbally, but his mouth and throat dry abruptly, as if to underscore the point. Instead, Matt forces himself to shake his head.

“Perhaps later,” Fisk croons, his voice rumbling like thunder rolling in the distant night.

And, then, he is gone, along with the temptation.

Matt languishes there for an uncertain amount of time until, eventually, Wesley returns to let him down. As soon as the cuffs open, the vigilante unceremoniously drops to the ground in a heap he knows to be decidedly undignified. He does not care for his battered pride; Matt hurts too much to care. His arms burn and quiver upon the cool, damp cement beneath him. Wesley offers him no time to recover, dragging Matt’s throbbing arms behind his back and retying them. However, that is all that Wesley does.

Sleep takes him before Matt even realizes he is alone once more, dragging him down into a deep void.

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In the morning, Foggy hauls his hungover carcass out of bed and down to the fancy coffee shop a few blocks beyond the office. He normally does not venture far beyond the neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen for day to day errands, preferring to offer the business to their neighbors. He also knows that the expense of the higher end shops are not well warranted by the limited budget of Nelson & Murdock. However, Foggy knows he owes Karen.

When he presents his colleague with her favorite nearly confectionary coffee treat topped with liberal amounts of whipped cream and chocolate drizzle, she practically beams at him. It makes the expense utterly worth every penny. Karen has not smiled in days, so it lightens his heart as well.

Sadly, when Karen presents him with the mail – and the _bills_ – any good feelings evaporate just as swiftly. Nelson & Murdock has never been the most profitable of ventures granted their insistence of only defending the truly innocent. There is simply no money to be found in such strategy. Yet, prosecution is neither Foggy’s nor Matt’s strong suit, and neither has ever felt comfortable defending the unrepentant.

The bills mean that Foggy will have to put looking for Matt on hold in favor of tending to paying clients. It hurts, but it is a necessary evil. Matt will understand, he knows. Matt would want Foggy to put the clients first, regardless of the financial status of the firm or the fact that one of the partners is missing.

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The thump of a kick to the ribs wakes Matt to a fresh round of agony. He instinctively curls about the site of the injury, groaning from the abrupt blow. Yet, that is not the only blow. Wesley beats him savagely with a club like object after that, perhaps a bat or other cudgel. It does not matter; the damage is all the same, leaving bruises littering his body.

Then, in a strange disconnect, there is Fisk again, crouched beside him and offering him water once more. “You’re dehydrated. You should drink.”

The world hurts, and his head throbs with every sluggish beat of his heart and the thick, soupy richness of his blood. Yet, Fisk is a smooth, cool rock amid a blinding rainbow of indignities and the chaotic mass of synesthesia flaring through his mind and senses. It is almost too easy to fold forward to the businessman and find some measure of comfort in the stillness there.

“Here. Let me help you,” Fisk offers with almost paternal warmth, holding the rim of the glass to Matt’s chapped, cracked lips.

The water is a cold elixir in the dark, cutting through the haze of Matt’s own suffering. It is plain and crisp, and it is more delicious than the finest alcohol. He sputters and gulps gratefully at it, wincing as some of the liquid spills and dribbles down his chin. The stray droplets patter upon the floor, echoing like death knolls. It seems a sinful waste, but Fisk does not pull away.

Instead, Fisk tuts him softly. “Slowly, slowly now.”

Matt ignores him, desperately sucking down the water until the glass is empty. The water sits all too heavily in his stomach for a brief moment before an eerie warmth slowly spreads through him despite the chill of the drink. He blinks absently against the sensation as his nerves abruptly sigh with relief. Then, Matt starts almost upright; narcotics.

“It’s alright. Nothing dangerous, of course. Just something to take the edge off,” Fisk murmurs over him, as he presses down evenly on Matt’s shoulder, pushing him back to the ground.

Matt wants to fight him, to rally against him, yet the warmth flushing through his body pulls inexorably at him. Fisk’s quiet insistence does not help either, no matter how the vigilante knows he should balk and fight against him. Instead, the lawyer finds himself back upon the floor, curled up on his side like a child. Later, it will seem like a dream. The water. The gentle tone. And, although Matt cannot be certain of it through a chemical induced haze, the thick, meaty fingers carding through his greasy hair.

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	2. Days

**To Catch the Devil**

**Days**

As the days blur together to the end of the first week, Foggy realizes that there are matters to be tended to outside of the day to day operations of Nelson & Murdock. It hits him with such a cold abruptness that it shocks him and irritates him in a way. They never show the practicalities of a missing person on television or in the movies.

He begins with Matt’s mail. All of Matt’s professional correspondences are addressed to Nelson & Murdock at their office, naturally. Foggy is already accustomed to sorting and reading that mail. Matt occasionally feigns inability to read the print mail despite owning a reader, generally when both lawyers have a sinking suspicion that bad news or bills linger in the mail. Instead, Foggy has to get into Matt’s mailbox at his apartment, but, fortunately, there is only bills and junkmail in the box.

That accomplished, Foggy calls the police and the hospitals again to seek any information, any news, only to find nothing. It is a sad, sour way to end the week.

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As time drags on and the beatings continue, Matt feels himself slipping further and further. Wesley constantly surprises Matt in his creativity and his brutality. Matt had suspected that something darker lingered beneath the pristine veneer of the businessman, but this goes well beyond even his worst imaginings.

In one particularly awful visit, Wesley has him bound to the chair once more and, then, he brands Matt. He uses some sort of heated metal rod, an improvised tool or soldering iron at best, but it is no less agonizing. He traces the burning brand across Matt’s chest slowly, deliberately, drawing grunts and moans from Matt with each touch. As the flesh scorches and burns, Wesley twirls the brand in long, elegantly curled shapes, as if scrolling designs there. It somehow makes the agony worse than Matt knows it should be.

As time crawls along, Matt finds himself steadily deteriorating. His stomach howls and twists with need, aching fiercely in a way that he has never known, not even in the orphanage. His body aches and fails him with every turn. He is unaccustomed to such weakness, such vulnerability. He lulls between the torture, unable to expand his senses enough to seek anything resembling a hint of escape; it frightens Matt that he is so cut off from his own senses and body.

Even if Matt could expand his senses further, he is not certain he wishes to do so. His world has become a symphony of human suffering. His senses of both smell and taste are constantly inundated with the stench of his own misery. The saltiness, musk, and stink of his own sweat from his unwashed body. The raw tang of ammonia and feces from his inability to relieve and clean himself, the filth clinging to him like a leech. The crisp metallic taste of iron rich blood. The tackiness of wet wounds sticking to him and the pull of dried blood scabbing and flaking off. It overwhelms him.

His head throbs with mounting dehydration despite the limited water offered by Fisk. Fisk is his only thread of compassion in this hell hole, for however awful that might sound. Fisk appears at regular intervals, often silently watching while Wesley vents his fury so calmly and gracefully upon him. When they are alone, Fisk approaches and always gently offers water to Matt. Without any other source of water available, Matt always drinks, gulping it down desperately.

It does not escape his notice that the water is always laced with something tasteless and odorless that dulls the pain and distances his awareness from his body. A part of Matt remains wary of this. He knows Wilson Fisk to be a calculating, cruel man, with little room for remorse. The lawyer knows Fisk would never willingly administer relief to his enemies without an ulterior motive. It tugs at the back of his consciousness, but Matt cannot quite grasp Fisk’s motive. Nor does Matt always care when his body begins to hunger desperately for even the slightest relief.

Then, one day, when it seems as though his left ear is beginning to normalize once more, Wesley is back with another of Fisk’s goons. They tie him to the chair once more. Matt struggles and fights, writhing against their hands, but his injuries and the days of immobility have left him limp and uncoordinated. The other man – big and bulky – grips Matt by his jaw and head with fingers so thick that they feel as though they could crush his skull. Matt grunts and jerks in those hands, but they hold him like a vice. Then, Wesley quite slowly jabs a long, piercing metal instrument into Matt’s ear repeatedly to once more damage the eardrum and plunge Matt into an imbalanced world anew.

Afterwards, Wesley gestures to the unnamed henchman. Those burly paws free Matt from his bindings to the chair, but he leaves Matt’s wrists shackled together. Then, the big man recedes, leaving Matt gasping and sucking at the air.

It takes Matt an embarrassingly long moment to realize that this is his chance. Stick chides him and mocks him from the depths of his subconscious, perhaps from memory or perhaps just from a dream of Stick. He is only bound by the wrist; Matt once successfully fought several assailants equally bound. He might be nude and vulnerable as such, but a strange part of Matt’s mind whispers that his nudity could prove an uncomfortable benefit. Matt does not necessarily need to escape completely; he needs only be witnessed by someone with even the slightest shred of moral fiber. As long as Matt can get far enough for someone to see him so unclothed and so beaten, he knows Fisk will be unable to cover this up. The nudity will also oddly preserve his identity as the masked vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen. He can do this.

When neither Wesley nor the hulking henchman move, Matt forces himself upright, mindful to plant his left foot first to keep the weight off his right leg as much as possible. Yet, as soon as he rises, the dizziness instantly overwhelms him. Matt clenches his teeth, working furiously to orient himself, but his body refuses to cooperate. He sways on his left foot, the motion only serving to worsen his disorientation, until he crashes to the cold concrete below. His body screams at various, flashing points of agony. It draws a gasp of pain from him, too loud for Matt’s comfort.

Wesley makes not a sound, but the goon as his side chuckles, “Not so tough, now.”

The couth businessman makes a small, cautioning sound, perhaps silencing the goon. Matt cannot be certain. He is too far gone now, too lost in his body’s own failings. He is only distantly aware when the two grip his right leg and pull it straight, the bones grating and rasping against one another as they shift beneath the skin. The lawyer cannot bite back his shrieks then, at least, not until the darkness swiftly reaches up and pulls him back down.

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Let it never be said that Natasha Romanov is nothing but a cold-hearted bitch. While the outward appearance of a remorseless viper has served her well, that is only a mask she bears. To be a successful spy, one must play a variety of characters in a seemingly endless play without getting lost beneath those masks.

Beneath the mask, Natasha knows the weight of her actions in the world, and she bears both the joy of victory with the bittersweet sorrow of failure and betrayal in equal measure. Taking down HYDRA at Steve’s side is just one such moment. In a series of quick keystrokes, Natasha spilled all of HYDRA’s secrets to the world at large, but she also divulged SHIELD’s secrets as well. It struck a killing blow to HYDRA’s infiltration of government agencies across the globe, but it equally slew SHIELD and any semblance of hope therein.

Among the files, to Natasha’s very great regret, had been Fury’s personal files. There had simply been no time to sort through the files and determine what should have remained classified. Her haste had forced her hand to dump even that along with the rest of the SHIELD database. Most of Fury’s files had been just as inflammatory as any of the others, but a few had been….. beyond sensitive. For years, Fury had been quietly pulling information about individuals with a rather select series of talents, vetting out potential candidates for the Avengers Initiative long before it existed in earnest.

It has been Natasha’s duty to ensure that this small mistake has caused no harm, her own, private mission. The spy ensures that each of the individuals documented in Fury’s personal files are secure from any harm, that they have all the means necessary to ensure their continued safety and privacy. She has kept this entirely personal matter concealed from Stark, Banner, and even Rogers. Only Clint knows, but, then again, Clint has always seen behind her many masks with ease. He has even helped her on occasion.

It has not escaped the spies’ notice that one of their targets has fallen off the radar entirely; the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He is well documented in Fury’s files. A recent addition to the crime-fighting and masked heroics community. A vigilante and seeming master of martial arts who spends his time patrolling and protecting a small chunk of New York City, safeguarding Hell’s Kitchen against crime organized and otherwise. Clint has been something of a fan, following the tales through the newspapers, tabloids, and gossip. He was the first to realize that days have passed without any news of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. It is as though the Devil has vanished entirely.

Both Clint and Natasha take the news with a measure of skepticism. Heroes rise and fall as the tides, and the working lifespan of a costumed hero tends to be far shorter than most would imagine. Few humans are built for such a punishing lifestyle, and even less are capable of successfully maintaining a dual identity. The Avengers have only been so successful because they have the support network necessary to focus on their duties as heroes without outside complications, with the requisite training and tools to keep up their work. They also have each other, whereas most others rely upon themselves, without any sort of support network or backup. Those individuals come and go like the wind, drifting into the scene and out, or being driven from their activities by crippling or killing blows.

Clint helps Natasha to scour the files. They hunt for any trace or clue towards the Devil’s true identity, anything that might have accidentally drawn the Devil’s enemies down upon him. Yet, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has always been a cautious individual, concealing all evidence of his existence. Fury’s files only detail what little information that has come from his victims, which is only the most basic of features. His gender, approximate height and weight, his race, his weapons, and his fighting style. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that would have exposed him.

In the end, both Natasha and Clint are forced to accept that there is nothing to be done. Clint supposes that the Devil has retired, but Natasha knows this is not the truth. She cannot and will not say it to Clint or anyone else. She knows the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has met some sort of unsavory, career-ending fate based off of the escalating criminal activity that he stood so valiantly against.

Natasha watches the news and monitors the police activity of the area to be certain, away from Clint’s prying eyes, until a small bit of information crosses her focus. A blind man from the Kitchen, a lawyer by the name of Matthew Murdock, has been reported missing at around the same time. Murdock and his firm had been building a case against a developer at the time; Wilson Fisk. It seems unconnected and entirely unlikely that Matthew Murdock might be the masked vigilante, yet Natasha knows better than to judge outward appearances so crudely. She investigates further but finds nothing more substantial than a hunch.

Natasha knows better than to trust anything but hard facts, but she also knows better than to completely disregard her gut. Natasha has always been good at reading people, and Matthew Murdock reads like a bestselling novel. A lawyer with absolute commitment to justice. A boy crippled by a freak accident while saving a life. A troubled childhood after his father’s death. A man with no social life really. A man built for a fight, but with seemingly no reason. It is all too perfectly coincidental to be mere coincidence. It is oddly the same portrait Natasha finds every time she meets one of the people from Fury’s files. Although the disability does complicate matters in a way that Natasha cannot reconcile, she must admit to herself that Matthew Murdock is connected to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen or that he _is_ the Devil himself.

She finds the apartment of Matthew Murdock and curiously notes that the location has direct rooftop access – an unusual feature for a man seemingly unable to appreciate the view. Natasha scouts the apartment briefly, determines it is empty, and lets herself in. The apartment is predictably utilitarian in décor, befitting a blind man. There is little sign of any life there. Even the air tastes somewhat stale, as though no one has disturbed the space for days. She notes the wallet on the nightstand, the folding cane on the table, the briefcase on sofa, all troubling signs that the lawyer has not left on a planned trip of any means.

She drifts slowly through the space, taking in the features before noticing the closet beneath the stairs with a silver, brand new padlock. That raises a brow. Locked items are valued items, whether in monetary or emotional value. Natasha expertly picks the lock. It is nothing more than a common padlock from a local hardware store, nothing that poses too much of a challenge for her.

There is only a single footlocker in the closet, a rather conspicuous item; Natasha kneels reverently before the locker and eases open the lid. Inside, she finds a pile of scarlet silk that appears to be a robe of some kind, leather boxing gloves, and other supplies in the top tray - certainly nothing to warrant the padlocked storage. She examines the sides of the top tray for any indication of a trap; upon finding none, the spy lifts the top tray and sets it down beside her.

The contents of the chest are damning at best. Black boots. Black pants that appear to be a combination of cargo pants and BDUs. Matching shirts that appear to be modified from Under Armor. And, most damning of all, are the weapons. There are a few pairs of escrima or short batons that have been the hallmark of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Natasha knows then that there can be no doubt; for whatever his supposed disability, Matthew Murdock is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Which also means that there can be no doubt; the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is very likely dead.

With a heavy heart, Natasha puts everything back the way it was and lets herself out the roof access once more before returning to the Tower. She says nothing to Clint; Natasha _cannot_ tell Clint. No one else knows about Clint’s hearing but Natasha. She cannot tell him that the Devil is a blind man, nor that something terrible has befallen the vigilante.

Natasha continues her investigation, but there is nothing. There is no body, no blood, no sign of the Devil. It is as though the City simply swallowed up Matthew Murdock.

xxx

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xxx

It had been easier for Matt to forget his hunger before when dehydration had been the more viscous foe. Now that he has learned to grudgingly accept water from Fisk to slake his thirst, it is harder to ignore his stomach. Matt has no concept of time to know exactly how long it has been since he last ate, but the vigilante knows it has been days, enough for his gut to twist and snarl with need.

Then, after a particularly awful session in which Wesley methodically jams bamboo spikes beneath each of Matt’s toenails, there is Fisk once more with his damnable water. Matt drinks as Fisk cradles his neck and head with a tenderness that seems utterly improbable, desperate for both the water and whatever narcotic cocktail that steals his pain away. He craves it so badly that Matt does not notice the other smell ferried in upon Fisk’s suit until after the water.

“I thought you might be hungry, Mr. Murdock,” Fisk’s booming voice intones, too loud and too heavy with bass into Matt’s ears and aching head.

Matt blinks stupidly at the thought, but, when he draws in a deep breath and studies the air, he catches the scent again. Warm. Salty. Savory. All those notes lingering just beneath the odor of Matt’s unwashed body, the sharply metallic tang of hot blood, and the sickly sweet rot of infection settling into one or more of his many wounds. It takes his reeling mind a long moment to identify the aroma as a broth – chicken, he thinks. It is an alien and incongruous scent after days of the overpowering stench of the cell.

“I asked my personal chef to prepare something that would be lighter and easier for you considering the circumstances,” Fisk announces almost magnanimously, all the practiced poise of a politician or philanthropist.

When Fisk’s mighty fingers reach behind Matt’s slender neck to draw him up, the lawyer shakes his head, an unintelligible denial hanging on his lips. Fisk pauses strangely. There is a queer moment when Matt feels Fisk’s eyes roving upon him, but the businessman does not flinch, does not give.

“No tricks, Mr. Murdock. Just consommé,” Fisk assures him. “I give you my word.”

Matt blinks once more, tears stinging at the edges of his sightless eyes as his mind swirls with conflict. His every instinct shrieks in protest of this offering, but his body demands it. The tears do not fall; he knows better than to waste even that little bit. Yet, he cannot bring himself to speak the words.

Instead, Matt turns his head away and whimpers, “Why are you doing this?”

Fisk does not answer. The businessman lets Matt slump back down to the ground, setting his head down slowly so that it does not thump or bump upon the stone floor. Then, the odd sensation of fingers running through Matt’s tangled, greasy hair. There is care there that frightens Matt, sending shivers down his spine.

Fisk leaves him then.

xxx

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xxx

When the call comes through to Nelson & Murdock from the morgue, Foggy nearly pisses himself before picking up the phone. He has been expecting this call for some time. He has hoped desperately against it while simultaneously planning for the call. Foggy knows there will be the expected pleasantries demanded by polite society, following swiftly by the request to identify a body matching Matt’s physical description. However, when Foggy does answer, the rather bland and boring sounding woman on the other end is only calling to inform him that it is time to claim the last remains of Elena Cardenas.

Foggy has spent so much of his time and energy on his missing friend and keeping the firm afloat that he almost forgot about Mrs. Cardenas. Almost. The call cuts him to the quick, and, after cobbling together a response and settling an appointment, he spends the better part of a half-hour crying to himself before Karen finds him.

The woman frowns delicately, pressing her fingertips to her lips to stifle the suspiciously sorrowful sounds that threaten to escape before asking, “Something wrong?”

Foggy blinks, taking in her shockingly colorless features and her glossy eyes. It takes the lawyer an embarrassingly long moment to realize what the woman must think. Karen cares for Matt deeply, almost as much as he does. His heart wrenches to think what she must have assumed granted the situation, and, then, he feels his own face pale abruptly.

“Mrs. Cardenas,” he mutters, looking away.

“Oh,” Karen breathes softly, her tone somewhat confused.

Foggy nods solemnly. “Yeah. They need someone to claim her.”

“Oh,” Karen repeats once more before resolve takes hold of her. “Well, then, we shouldn’t keep our client waiting.”

Foggy feels his heart lift slightly, and he nods. Together, they close the office and go to collect Mrs. Cardenas’s ashes. Karen’s quiet presence at his side gives Foggy the strength necessary to go through with it. They return to the office with Mrs. Cardenas’s last remains in a plain, steel urn, having purchased the receptacle using the scant petty cash from the firm. Foggy and Karen toast her and briefly discuss what to do with Mrs. Cardenas.

Finally, it is Foggy who declares, “She stays here.” When Karen raises a brow in shock, Foggy continues, “She wanted to stay in the Kitchen. If she stays with us, Mrs. Cardenas can stay in the Kitchen.” The words taste right on his tongue, so Foggy underscores, “She _belongs_ here.”

It goes without saying that Matt does as well, wherever he is.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

During the long hours between visits from Wesley and Fisk, Matt drifts in a sort of daze. Consciousness is a fickle thing, particularly granted the tenuous nature of time for the vigilante. There are times when he is certain that he is unconscious, only to realize by the intrusion of a new pain or a strange sensory input that he is awake and aware. There is nothing to orient himself.

The time Matt spends awake, he alternates between seeking some means of escape and pondering his predicament. He considers the weight of his actions and the events to bring him to this moment. He thinks of the people he has saved and the lives changed by something as simple as a plain, black mask. It gives him some small measure of comfort to know that his suffering has been worth something to someone out there.

When that fails him, Matt prays. He mentally recites each and every prayer he remembers. The Lord’s Prayer. The Hail Mary. The Apostle’s Creed. The Glory Be. Any and all that linger in Matt’s memory. The words trickle over his brain and offer no comfort either.

Time blurs together and passes in strange lurches in this manner until Matt realizes much to his displeasure and shame, that he is actually speaking the words. Rather, he finds he is uttering them listlessly to himself. He snaps his mouth shut, clenching his teeth as his cheeks burn furiously. Matt turns his head, straining to listen with his good ear, but, fortunately, finding no sign of any other human in his small cell. The knowledge only minutely mitigates his embarrassment and does nothing to stem Matt’s fear that he is perhaps losing control of himself.

When it happens again, Matt finds himself caring less and less until, finally, he does not care at all who hears him pray.

xxx

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xxx

Victory never tasted so sweet to Foggy Nelson.

Admittedly, it is a small and fleeting sensation tied to a decidedly modest victory in an easy case. One of the clients of Nelson & Murdock was an older man facing potential eviction due to his service dog – technically an emotional support animal the man needed to cope with mental health issues from his service in Vietnam. He simply hadn’t filed the proper paperwork, not until Foggy came along and negotiated for a stay of eviction for the man to file all his paperwork and get a therapist’s prescription for his dog. Finally, after a series of meetings and negotiations, they came to an agreement. The man and his dog can stay with no financial penalties, so long as the dog completes basic training. Fortunately, one of Nelson & Murdock’s past clients is a professional dog walked and trainer who was more than happy to provide her services.

Later, when he and Karen toast one another, Foggy thinks solemnly of Matt. Matt should be there with them celebrating. This is precisely the sort of case Matt loves; an innocent and needy client in desperate need of their defense and assistance. Foggy reminds himself that this is why Nelson & Murdock exists, even if the Murdock part is MIA.

It only serves to whet the pain when the man’s daughter and granddaughter drop off homemade sugar cookies shaped like dogs the next day.

xxx

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xxx

The next time Fisk comes to him and the warm, salty mellow of the broth tickles at his nose hairs tantalizingly, Matt finds himself licking his lips with need. Yet, Matt once more shakes his head and turns away when Fisk offers. The lawyer knows he has sunk low, but he is not that low yet to take anything more from the businessman.

Fisk sighs heavily and shakes his head. “You aren’t doing yourself any favors, Mr. Murdock.”

Matt sniffs hotly; it is all the retort he can muster. Wesley has been rather creative as of late, slicing away at his flesh and peeling away small pieces of skin on his upper chest before quite honestly salting the wounds with what feels like coarse sea salt. It still burns, especially against the burns on his chest. In addition to that, _he_ burns. One or more of his wounds is festering and rotting with infection, robbing Matt of his strength and fight.

“Perhaps later,” Fisk breathes primly before leaving Matt to his solitude and his prayers.

Matt lies upon the floor where Wesley has left him, thinking about temptation. The nuns and the pastor at the orphanage had liked sharing the tales of temptation from the Bible. Even as a child, Matt had understood their intention, their hope of steering the children in their care away from petty jealousy of the neighborhood children who seemed to have it all compared to them. Now, though, each and every tale screams in the back of his mind as though an eerily precognitive teaching specifically for Matt Murdock.

Stick clicks his teeth from Matt’s subconscious. _‘Aw, don’t be stupid, Matty.’_

It seems like something Stick would stay, for he said it often.

_‘All that temptation and denial is bullshit, and you know it,’_ Stick sneers at him. _‘You can deny shit and suffer all you want, but all it’ll get you is dead. No salvation. No helping hand. Just dead. And then what good are you?’_

Matt blinks at the realization, somewhat startled by the clarity and conviction of it. However, there is no denying the truth. If Matt continues to deny Fisk’s offerings, he will only continue to waste away. Stick had been quite clear in his teachings to mind his body and serve its needs well, for it was the greatest tool at his disposal. If he denies sustenance, his body will only cannibalize its self until there is nothing left and until he eventually succumbs.

And, so, when Fisk next returns after another session with Wesley, and offers the broth after the water, Matt nods and breathes, “Please.”

Fisk stiffens for a brief moment, clearly startled by Matt’s abrupt reversal. For a heartbeat, the lawyer trembles with fear that the businessman will deny him now that he has caved. However, Fisk regroups and holds a cup to Matt’s lips, tipping it carefully. The broth is warm but not scalding, and delicious. He gulps desperately at it, sucking down as much as possible as Fisk tuts him as a father might. In no time, the cup is empty, and Matt’s stomach feels uncomfortably full and bloated despite the miniscule amount.

Yet, even that matters not when Matt’s body warms from within. The drug. His muscles loosen with relief as the drug numbs him through and through. His body becomes heavy and lax, and the world becomes slow and syrupy. It takes him an impossibly long moment to understand that whatever dose is usually in the water must also be in the broth.

As the drug pulls him down and down, something curious happens. Fisk remains, standing over him as Matt continues to relax into the sensation. Then, after some time, Fisk kneels at his side once more. When those meaty paws contact his flesh, Matt wants to pull away, but he can hardly summon the energy to flinch. Fisk shushes him softly as his hands rove over Matt’s exposed flesh, exploring and prodding experimentally. The vigilante thinks this will be it, the sexual assault he has been expecting all this time, but the drug squashes any of the terror Matt thinks should be there.

However, Fisk’s touch remains clinical and careful; after a moment, the businessman calls to Wesley, “The kit, please.”

Uncertainty washes over Matt, fleeing without sticking as the lawyer knows it should. However, when Wesley returns and hands something to Fisk, Matt actually recognizes the dry, artificial and sterile scents of medical equipment and their sanitary wrappings. A first aid kit. Matt could laugh if he had the energy or the strength, especially when Fisk slowly cleans and dresses his various wounds with a tenderness that is absolutely incongruous with those powerful fists. As Fisk works over him, Matt feels himself drifting away.

xxx

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xxx

The notice from Landman and Zack arrives at the officers of Nelson & Murdock despite the fact that their client, Mrs. Cardenas, is already deceased. Foggy scowls deeply when he spies the hefty, manila envelope branded with the familiar logo in the upper corner. His blood boils further when he notices Mrs. Cardenas’s name along with the firm’s name in the address. When he tears the envelope open and skims the notarized contents, all that anger instantly dissolves into grief. Without Mrs. Cardenas, the other tenants of her building have all folded, and there is no one to contest the demolition of her home.

It is a crushing blow that Foggy can hardly stomach. For the rest of the day, he is borderline useless, unable to really dredge up the effort necessary to accomplish much of any worth. Fortunately, Karen understands and rearranges their schedule to accommodate their grief.

At the end of the day, when Foggy drags himself into Josie’s and drops himself at one of the barstools, Josie just folds her arms across her chest and barks, “Oh, no. No you don’t.”

“Oh, what now, Josie?”

The shrewd woman glares across the bar at him imposingly, and, for a brief moment, Foggy recalls all the times he has seen her physically haul grown men out of the bar to toss them herself when necessary. Josie is not a woman to trifle with. No. She is the sort of woman to cross at great personal risk shortly before skipping down and going below the radar just to be safe.

Josie shakes her head. “Not tonight. I’m sick of your mopey face, Nelson.” Foggy opens his mouth to argue, but the bartender wags a warning finger at him. “You’re not drinking tonight. At least not here.” Then, abruptly, Josie softens. “Go home and get some rest. You know Murdock’ll kill me if he finds out you’ve been pickling yourself here every day.”

“Fine. Fine,” he concedes, pushing away from the bar.

Josie nods and watches smugly as Foggy leaves, but he does not go home. Not right away at least. Instead, the lawyer wanders Hell’s Kitchen, uncertain exactly where he is going. In time, though, his feet take him to the doorstep of Mrs. Cardenas’s building. Foggy stares at it for some time and questions what exactly he is doing. There is nothing there for him, but he stands there all the same. He balls his fists and swears to Mrs. Cardenas that none of this will be in vain.

xxx

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xxx

An uneasy routine forms. Wesley arrives and calmly, methodically tortures Matt. He leaves Matt bloodied, bruised, battered, and slumped upon the floor, his wrists securely bound. Then, Fisk arrives. First, he waters Matt. Then, he feeds him simple broths or soups. Both the water and the food are always drugged. When they take affect and bring him down, Fisk tends to his injuries personally. It unsettles Matt, but he has no choice in the matter as his body continues to fail him.

Then, abruptly, the routine is broken. When Wesley is done with Matt, he unties the broken vigilante and lets him tumble to the floor. Matt lies there, struggling to breathe and regain control from the agony inflicted upon him. He waits for Wesley to shackle his wrists together, expecting the sudden tug on his arms and the bite of handcuffs against his abraded skin. Neither comes. Instead, there is only the recession of footsteps and the ticking of that hated watch followed by the creak and slam of the door closing securely behind Wesley.

Matt waits for Fisk and finds himself oddly anticipating the bigger man’s arrival. No. That is not the right word. Anticipation does not necessary do justice to Matt’s need. He _craves_ Fisk’s arrival. It sickens Matt to acknowledge this fact. Matt shudders and curls up about his aching chest as he tries and fails to dismiss the thought, but it is true. He _needs_ Fisk to come. Matt rationalizes that it is the food, water, and narcotics that Fisk brings, but even that logical conclusion does nothing to sooth his worry.

After a time, an unknown man – one of Fisk’s grunts – arrives. Matt tenses, expecting the stranger to string him up once more for Wesley, but the man does nothing of the sort. Instead, the stranger places something upon the cement floor and leaves, locking the chamber behind him.

For a time, Matt does not move. He does not have the energy. Then, when the familiar scent of chicken consommé reaches his nostrils, Matt pulls himself across the floor, his broken leg dragging uselessly behind him. He easily finds a cool, plastic tray before the door. In one corner of the tray rests a plastic cup of water that Matt downs in a flash before his shaking hand spills any of the liquid. In the middle of the tray, in a mockery of a table setting, is an equally shatterproof bowl of broth. Matt sips at that slowly to savor the broth and make it last, cradling the bowl in both hands to keep from dropping it.

Uncomfortable so close to the door, Matt retreats to the far corner, curling up about himself and sighing in anticipated contentment. He knows that any moment now those blessed drugs will take effect and swaddle him in warm, chemical embrace, muffling both the world and the myriad of hurts from his body. Something tugs uncertainly in the back of his mind, likely the portion of him that knows this is all too troubling of a warning sign of chemical dependency. Matt finds that he oddly does not care.

However, before long, Matt’s stomach clenches and twists fiercely, roiling uncomfortable. He grits his teeth against the sensation as his gut cramps painfully about the meager rations. Bile rises up in his throat, burning at the back of his palate. Despite his best efforts, Matt gags and vomits up everything in him. There is not much, but his body violently rejects it all until he is left dry heaving, shivering, and hugging himself on the floor, utterly miserable. The vigilante does not know how long he lies there.

After a time, one of Fisk’s goons returns and reclaims the tray, ignoring Matt entirely. It matters not. Matt is too exhausted, too wrung out, and still too sick to put up a fight. He feels acutely vulnerable for the first time in many years.

When Wesley’s next visit is followed by another tray by the door, Matt knows better. Despite his every instinct demanding him to eat and drink, Matt leaves the tray untouched. He knows that, like the last tray, this food will be poisoned or tainted and will make him just as physically ill as the last tray had. The tray remains until Wesley comes again, the broth cooling but the scent steadily tempting him the entire time. Matt turns to a corner, burying his head in his arms to block out the world as he once had as a child before Stick. It is equally as ineffective now as it had been in his youth. He shudders against his own hold and feels bright, hot tears roll down his cheeks as Matt struggles against his own need.

Eventually, Wesley comes once more to administer another bone jarring beating. When he leaves, Wesley removes the tray. Matt chuckles to himself at a gratitude that sickens him, tasting his one coppery blood with each laugh. It is a cruel mercy that seems impossibly ironic and comical to the lawyer that Wesley takes the temptation before Matt can succumb to it once more.

Then, Fisk is there, cradling Matt to offer him cool, fresh water and spoon warm soup to him, and, then, there is soft, narcotic fuzziness cocooning him once more. As the drugs drag him down, Fisk smooths down Matt’s greasy, filthy hair, and the vigilante understands. The only food or drink he can have are those that are given right from Fisk’s hand; the only kindness or salvation he will find are that which Fisk gives.

It is a terrible, frightening, horrible thought, but Matt cannot find the effort to be concerned as the drugs drag him down deeper and deeper to that mellow darkness where he can breathe.

xxx

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xxx


	3. Weeks

**To Catch the Devil**

**Weeks**

As the weeks go on, the worry in Foggy mutes to something more akin to actual grief. He knows the statistics, the probabilities of finding a missing person after the first week. Foggy is well aware that the odds of finding Matt alive have dropped to the single digit percent range, and it is a sobering thought. Yet, he refuses to give up hope, mindful that Matt would not give up on him. He faithfully calls the detectives involved in the case almost daily, checks with Brett frequently, keeps Matt’s cell on him and charged, and pops by the apartment after work every day.

Then, one evening, Foggy is surprised to find someone else is already there; a woman. She is standing before the door, rapping upon it with her knuckles, her ear pressed to the wood. She is beautiful. Athletically built with long, dark hair to go with her rich, tanned skin and sharp eyes. Her thin, shapeless scrubs hug her curvy form in some places, while concealing her figure in others. Foggy almost gapes before recalling his mother taught him better than to stare, especially at a gorgeous woman.

She starts at his presence, and Foggy stammers briefly before gathering his wits enough to apologize, “I’m sorry. I didn’t…. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The woman’s expression sours, and she demands sharply, “Who are you? Want do you want?”

Something snaps in Foggy’s brain, and the lawyer in him kicks on to reply coldly, “I should be asking you the same thing.”

The woman blinks and tries to smoothly cover, “Just checking on my friend. He said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Nice try, but no one’s been home for a while now,” Foggy snaps.

When Foggy sternly folds his arms across his chest, she smirks almost sheepishly. “Okay, I’ll admit it; this probably looks kind of weird.” The woman turns her gaze to the door again as she explains, “Matt and I…. we aren’t exactly friends, but I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks. It had me worried.”

Suddenly, it clicks, and Foggy blurts out, “Holy shit!” The woman starts once more, and Foggy almost shouts in her face, “You’re Hottie McBurnerphone!” When the woman frowns, Foggy’s cheeks flush, and he swiftly goes on, “Oh, God, I’m sorry. That sounds awful. But you’re the one Matt was seeing!”

The woman laughs and shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Something like that.”

Foggy preens at his own genius, and he holds out a hand to shake. “Foggy. Foggy Nelson. I’m his partner.” When the stranger cocks a brow, Foggy adds, “His legal partner.” When that brow refuses to lower, Foggy tags on, “We’re partners at a law firm together.”

“Claire Temple,” the woman finally introduces, her tone still guarded. She shakes his hand cordially, but, then, looks back to the door and asks, “So, where has our boy been?”

Foggy’s heart falls into his stomach, and he fumbles with his keys for the spare to Matt’s apartment. “You should come inside and sit down.”

“Why?” Claire questions. “Is he dead?” Something must register on Foggy’s face, for the woman nods. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

“Not exactly.”

Foggy invites her into Matt’s apartment, no matter how suspect or improper that might seem. It seems the only polite thing he can do, appearances regardless. She accepts with a small nod, and Foggy lets both of them inside. Foggy makes a show of checking Matt’s fridge for something to offer to drink or eat, even though he knows there is nothing suitable for sharing. It is a stalling tactic, nothing more. Fortunately, the nurse tuts him gently.

They sit on the couch together, and Foggy explains what little he knows – which quite sadly amounts to almost nothing. Claire listens solemnly, taking it all in without comment. There is something strangely cathartic to telling this stranger, as though unburdening himself. He tells her everything about the case, Mrs. Cardenas, Wilson Fisk, and Matt’s disappearance.

Finally, once everything has been said, Claire gives another slow nod, considering the matter carefully before breathing, “Wow. That’s…. some story.”

Foggy frowns deeply. “I know. I know it sounds crazy, but-“

“But I’ve heard crazier,” Claire interrupts with a deep sigh. When Foggy glances to her, she smiles ruefully and shakes her head. “E.R. nurse. Crazy stories come with the job.”

Silence yawns between them, a vast gulf of uncertainty. A part of Foggy wants to ask Claire how she met Matt, how much she knows about him. A part of him desperately wants to know if there is anything Claire knows that might help them find his friend. Yet, that feels decidedly inappropriate to ask considering that the nurse came to Matt’s apartment; if she knew anything, Foggy knows she would not be there looking for Matt either.

After a time, Claire excuses herself solemnly; Foggy sees her to the door. His mother taught him manners enough to see a lady out. She smiles wistfully at the door, as though considering what to say or do to comfort both the lawyer and herself.

Before she goes, Claire tells Foggy firmly, “He’ll turn up. He always does. Like a bad penny.”

“I know.”

It is not until much later that night that Foggy wonders why Claire’s first thought was to ask if Matt is dead. It nags and gnaws at the edge of his consciousness as he lays his head down to sleep. However, in the morning, the thought evaporates with the first golden rays of dawn.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It is a vicious cycle that holds Matt captive more than his bindings. Each day begins with fresh Hell wrought by Wesley’s hands – or by another of Fisk’s nameless goons. Wesley’s creativity knows no bounds, nor does his savagery. Any and all tools seem constantly available to the businessman, and Wesley is extremely proficient at turning even seemingly innocuous items into implements of agony. One particularly ingenious session involved little more than rope restraints and a singing bowl or tuning fork of some kind, the sharp, shrill harmonic frequency burning through his ear and down his every nerve ending – worsened when Wesley moved about the room with the damned thing.

There is a lull after the torture. Matt is never certain how long he languishes alone, struggling to pull himself back together, to regain some semblance of composure and swallow some of his own pain and shame. It might be minutes, or it might be hours. Matt has no means to measure time in this place, and, even if he did, the vigilante is not certain he cares to know how much time passes. Sometimes, Wesley hoses Matt down after, leaving him to shiver as cold chills wrack his increasingly frail body. Sometimes, Matt is left bound, chained, or shackled wherever Wesley leaves him, but, other times, he is mercifully left unrestrained but unable to do more than breathe and hug himself against….. against it all.

Then, Fisk is there in the darkness with clean, sweet water and delicious, filling broth or soup. Matt greedily accepts anything and everything Fisk brings him. The vigilante knows it is all he will be offered. He also knows that after Fisk waters and feeds him like a pet, there will be the soft, chemical swaddling of narcotic pain relief wrapping his nerves and dulling the physical horror that has become his every waking minute.

It is not until the day that Fisk does _not_ come that Matt realizes how much he has come to anticipate Fisk’s visits. That day, once Wesley is through with him, he leaves Matt curled up in a pathetic heap of mangled, increasingly bony limbs piled up in a corner. That day, Matt hugs himself and waits for an impossibly long time for Fisk to come bearing his meager daily portion of broth and water. He does not know how long it takes for Fisk to arrive ever, but, when it feels like a lifetime has passed without incident, Matt feels his heart abruptly hammer in his chest.

The fear squeezes at his heart as Matt’s consciousness shrieks, _“He’s not coming.”_

Before the panic can take him, Matt forces the thought down, burying it deeply. Fisk will come, he knows. Fisk always comes; he always had since Matt learned so painfully not to accept anything that did not come directly from Fisk’s hand. Matt swallows the fear down, mindful that it is a reaction that has been carefully orchestrated by Fisk, consciously aware that it is exactly what Fisk _wants_.

The vigilante drags himself to the corner of his own, private Hell and wraps his arms about his scrawny legs, hugging himself against the terror and the _need_ so deep that it cuts. There, with his forehead pressed against the wall to hide how he trembles, Matt waits, holding his breath unconsciously for whatever is to come.

In time, a fitful doze takes him until Wesley returns for another round of torture. This time, Wesley has brought a hammer. His swings ring true through Matt’s every bone. An occasional meaty crunch or crack accompanies the blows, along with a feral shriek that the lawyer hardly recognizes as coming from his own mouth.

When Wesley is finished with him for the day, it seems, Matt forcibly hauls himself back to his corner. There, he holds himself against his own suffering, shivering and shuddering against the cold concrete. He loses himself in the mindless motion, drifting in the darkness that had once been so comforting to him and now feels so barren, so empty. Matt does not realize that his motions have become lurching sobs until bright, white hot streaks of tears burn down his cheeks.

Matt finds himself desperately and inexplicably _praying_ for Fisk’s return as he cries in his corner. It is a dark, forbidden, and absolutely sickening need, burning through Matt, consuming him whole until even his flesh burns. It is Hell, the Inferno. It is everything the nuns and priests of his childhood told him the price for sins would encompass. His heart clenches painfully against the need that burns so bright within him, flaring down every nerve.

Matt tells himself it is the thirst, all consuming, stealing him of his logic. Thirst has been his constant companion in this place. He has only been offered limited water and broth during his time in this Hell, and the vigilante has had nothing in a day or more. He cannot tell. His head aches and throbs with each beat of his heart, some quite stuttered and unnatural in their rhythm. His tongue feels thick, fat, and uncomfortably dry, almost alien in his own mouth. There are times when Matt lifts his head too swiftly and feels abruptly faint from the motion, times when Matt thinks he may have passed out from the movement alone. It is dehydration playing tricks with him, leaving him exhausted, weakened, and vulnerable beyond his injuries.

Matt lies and rationalizes that it is the hunger. He had been lean before this after years of training, with very little adipose fat to his body. What little there had been is gone already. Now, his body is turning on its self, consuming muscle to feed more critical systems. The flesh is melting away from him, leaving him scrawny and brittle feeling. His body is desperate for calories.

The vigilante tells himself anything but the truth that he knows lies just beneath the surface of lies he has so carefully built for himself; he _needs_ Fisk. Worse, he _depends_ on Fisk. Wilson Fisk has become his own lifeline in this place, his only source of food and comfort. A distant part of his psyche – perhaps the last vestiges of the lawyer to him – rationalizes that this is a complex psychological reaction intentionally crafter by Fisk and reinforced by the soothing drugs he brings and their chemical affects upon Matt. However logical and impossibly unassailable the argument, recognizing that only brings more shame upon him. He is _addicted_ to Wilson Fisk.

When Wesley comes for him once more, Matt bursts into sobs and begs, “Please…. please…..”

Wesley pauses. “Please, what?”

“Please…..” Matt’s body twitches almost convulsively as he struggles to hold himself together. He can barely manage to force out, “Fisk.”

Fortunately for Matt, that is apparently all Wesley needs to hear from him. Matt is not certain he still has the strength mentally or physically to say anything more. The businessman gives a terse nod and cracks open the door to the cell.

“Sir? He is asking for you.”

Matt cannot look, but that does not stop his body and mind from focusing down upon the door like a sharp arrow of need. The door creaks open further, bringing with it a breeze of sharply clean tasting air as well as the warm bulk and heft of Wilson Fisk. His nerves immediately relax ever so slightly when his ears catch the familiar sound of Fisk’s easy stride and the scent of freshly laundered linens flood his nostrils. Matt’s body sags with an uneasy relief as Fisk draws close to him and cards his meaty paw over Matt’s greasy, knotted hair. He shudders and recoils when Fisk’s hand strokes down his arm, but Fisk shushes him almost tenderly.

Fisk pulls away, and Matt distantly thinks that the businessman will leave him for this rejection. Matt unsuccessfully works to choke back the tears and sobs that threaten, but the larger man surprisingly does not abandon him. Instead, when Fisk returns to Matt’s side, it is bearing water and broth, both of which Matt gratefully gulps down before they can be stolen from him. When he is finished, though, Fisk brings him seconds and thirds, all of which Matt drinks down until his shrunken stomach can bear no more and until his entire body eases from the rising warmth of the narcotics.

As the drugs sooth his aching body and worn nerves, Matt feels himself leaning into the warmth, into something soft, something pliant and embracing. He burrows into it briefly, hungry for that meager comfort now that he has had his fill of water and broth. Then, Matt realizes that the only thing for him to be folding into is Wilson Fisk. He starts with a gasp, but Fisk tuts him gently and rubs down his back. Fisk is physically much stronger than Matt now, and the vigilante cannot pull away. Fisk just continues to massage and sooth him until Matt yields with a lurching, painfully constrained sob that eventually gives way to the tears. As Matt cries into him and shakes, Fisk merely holds him, as a father might comfort his child.

In time, the drugs and the exhaustion take him once more, but not before Matt realizes just how far he has fallen.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

As the weeks continue to bleed by, Foggy becomes increasingly desperate for any news on Matt, anything at all. He repeatedly calls the detectives in charge of Matt’s case and checks the apartment daily. He pops into all the establishments with posters whenever possible, asking if they have seen any hint of Matthew Murdock. When neither the police nor the posters produce any results, Foggy reluctantly turns to the enemy.

Needless to say, Marci is taken aback by Foggy’s call, enough that her generally arctic and acerbic wit briefly falters upon answering. However, within seconds, the shrewd woman recovers and snaps back. Her barbed comments sting, gutting through him like a surgeon’s scalpel. Foggy accepts it all. He deserves it, considering that every time he contacts her it is never just for social pleasantries. As soon as Marci allows him a millisecond to speak, Foggy apologizes for it all and begs her to meet him. Shockingly, Marci agrees, and they arrange to have a brief lunch – only at a location that Marci deems reputable.

When Foggy excuses himself to meet Marci, Karen’s icy gaze does not escape his notice. He shivers under her glare but says nothing. Foggy deserves her bitter scorn, but he simply does not have the time to accept it and apologize. Karen deserves better than him.

Marci is already at the lavish, polished bar when Foggy arrives at the agreed upon location, sipping a perfectly chilled martini and sighing, “Alright, Foggy Bear, what do you need so much that you deigned to come to me?”

“Matt’s missing.”

It comes in a hasty blurt, but Foggy cannot find it in him to put together any sort of coherent lead in. It works though, catching Marci’s attention and shattering her composure. She nearly spits out her assuredly overpriced cocktail but catches herself quickly enough to swallow it back.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Foggy sits, stating again more firmly, “Matt. He’s missing. He’s been missing for weeks now.”

Marci shifts her weight uncomfortably. “Are you sure he is missing? Are you sure he didn’t just…. I don’t know…. find a nice girlfriend and get out of Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Marci, it’s Matt,” Foggy says in a firm tone, leveling a knowing gaze upon her as though the simple affirmation can explain everything.

She shrugs. “Worth a shot.” The woman sips again at her drink before asking, “So, why’d you call me?”

Foggy runs his fingers through his hair and shrugs oddly. “I don’t know.” It is the truth, but Foggy cannot dwell on that. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“Uh, the cops,” Marci snaps.

Foggy rolls his eyes. “I tried them. They’ve been…. less than useful.” He leans in close. “Matt was openly aggressive against Landman and Zach with the Cardenas case. He pissed off more than a few people; it’s no secret. Have you heard anything? Anything at all?”

“Foggy Bear,” Marci hisses through her teeth, any candor from the pet name eroded by the vitriol to her tone. “I want you to stop right now and think very carefully about what you are implying.”

Nelson blanches, feeling the color drain from his face before swiftly replacing its self in flush. He cannot ask her that. Such a question insinuates that Foggy thinks the firm is somehow involved in Matt’s disappearance. It is a dangerous accusation to even hint at, even more dangerous for Marci to confirm. It is a downright idiotic question to have asked, a rookie mistake that Foggy should have skirted well away from. Such questions could jeopardize not only both of their careers but also their lives should Landman and Zach actually be connected to any sort of criminal enterprise.

He blinks at his own stupidity. “No, not like that. I just….”

When he pauses, Foggy spies something akin to empathy flicker through Marci’s features. “I get it. I do.” She plasters a knowing, coy smile across her face, like a cat faced with a cornered canary. “You think Matt decided to jump ship on you and come swimming his way back to Landman and Zach.” When Foggy can only flap his lips, Marci sighs overly dramatically and continues, “Everyone who’s anyone knows you guys were barely making ends meet with your little charity outfit. I’m just surprised _you_ haven’t come crawling back with your tail between your legs.”

When Marci meets his gaze again, there is sharpness there. It is an unspoken order. _Agree with me, damnit._ As Foggy considers her words, he understands now. Marci always was the viper among them, ready for the strike and always wary of any threats at her heels.

“Yeah,” Foggy nods numbly. “You got me.”

She grins and gives him a patronizing pat on the knee. “Oh, poor little Foggy Bear left behind with all the dregs and unfortunates of Hell’s Kitchen. I’ll ask around the office for you, put out some feelers to see if he’s bailed and left you hanging.” She bites her lip before admitting, “While I do that, you could always put out some feelers on your own.”

Foggy quirks a brow. “Huh?”

Marci draws close, close enough for him to smell her perfume. “Rumor’s been going around the office about that Hogarth of the Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz fame keeps getting the drop on her cases because she’s got some ace PI in her pocket. I didn’t think it was for real until she got the dirt on one of my clients and tanked my whole case. I did some fishing around of my own, and I think I’ve got the name.” She takes out a pen from her purse and scribbles a name on a cocktail napkin. “Been saving it for a rainy day, but it looks like you’ve got a hurricane on your hands.”

When Marci presses the napkin into his hands, Foggy surveys her elegant cursive. _Alias Investigations._ It is not a name Foggy has ever heard. He almost doubts it is legal or even real himself. However, Foggy will try anything if it means finding Matt.

“Thanks, Marci.”

She hugs him warmly. “You take care of yourself, Foggy Bear.” When Marci lets him go, she slaps a crisp bill on the bar and snipes, “Normally, I’d make you pick up the tab, but I doubt you could here.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

When consciousness returns to Matt, he is both confused and surprised. A woolen blanket lies upon him, and, briefly terrified by the thing’s unexpected presence, Matt flings it away before further evaluating his condition. Judging by the feel and sound of the air about him, he is in his little concrete box. However, it does not smell nor taste the same. It smells much cleaner, as though someone has washed his cell thoroughly. _He_ smells and feels cleaner, as though someone has bathed him. When Matt reaches to his head and experimentally, he finds that his hair beneath his fingertips feels soft, dry, clean, and neatly brushed. He runs his hands down his naked body and finds several bandages, as well as freshly washed skin.

Matt shivers convulsively as the pieces slot together to form something of a meaningful explanation; Fisk. He asked for Fisk specifically, and he has been rewarded for it with food, drink, cleanliness, and even a blanket. Not too long ago, these were normalcies in his life; now, they have been given as treasured rewards.

Matt tries not to dwell on it as he reaches for the blanket and pulls it about himself. He is beginning to understand now. Wesley delivers the pain, while Fisk presents the mercy. It is a cruel, sick game they play, forcing Matt’s wounded psyche to seek out Fisk for comfort and safety.

Even worse, their game is working.

The thought looms dark over Matt’s head the more he considers it. With each passing minute, each day, he has been falling steadily into Fisk’s grasp. Every sip of water, every scant bit of food and kindness is bringing him to an awful precipice. Matt pulls the blanket tighter about himself, as though he can steel himself against the inevitable with a scrap of fabric alone.

_“Even the strongest man has his breaking point, Mattie. Never forget that.”_

Stick had never said those words to Matt, but it is Stick’s voice that brings such wisdom from the depths of his consciousness nevertheless. It seems the sort of advice Stick would offer. Cold, direct, and remorseless.

_“Fisk knows that, too.”_

Matt nods to himself. A part of him is deliriously aware of just how precarious of a situation he has fallen prey to – has _allowed_ himself to fall prey to. Eventually, he will crumble like any other man, and, then, his mind will be ripe for the taking. For what? Matt still does not know, but he knows well enough that it does not matter. Whatever it is, if Fisk is involved, it cannot be good.

He spends the next few days trying, but his body is too weak, too spent.

 _“You’ve waited too long, Mattie,”_ Stick chides him. _“Gone too soft.”_

“Shut up,” Matt chokes out in a thin whisper.

_“You let them wear you down too much.”_

Matt feels his insides coil and twist at the thought, and he curls up tighter against the discomfort. “Just shut up.”

Stick’s voice is shrewd. _“Mattie, I’m a hallucination, a stress induced coping mechanism, and you’re telling me to shut up like it’s going to mean a god-damn thing. Shit, you_ are _too far gone.”_

Matt blinks to himself. He has known this to be true, he has. Yet, somehow, hearing the words from Stick hurts more than the vigilante could have imagined. He stuffs his fist against his lips to stave off the horrified sounds that threaten to fall.

It takes him several minutes to compose himself, and, when he does, Matt grinds out, “I am not gone.”

When Stick speaks against, it is with pride. _“That’s the spirit.”_

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It begins with her answering machine recording of a curt, female voice announcing, _“Wrong number.”_

Foggy leaves a message after the beep anyway, rambling as he does, still a bit uncertain if he has actually reached Alias Investigations. He is not certain what exactly to say, so he says it all. Anything and everything until another beep cuts him off. Then, Foggy rings again and leaves his contact information on a second message along with a plea for her help. When he does not get a call back, he calls again and again, simply hitting redial, hanging up when the machine picks up, and punching redial once more.

Eventually, the same woman who recorded the message answers with a roar. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” Foggy instinctively responds. “I’m looking for Alias Investigations.”

“You’ve reached it. Now speak fast or I’m hanging up,” the woman hisses.

“Wait, wait, wait! Please don’t hang up. Please, please, just hear me out.”

There comes a sigh. “Alright, but this better be good.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It is days before Matt is able to muster the strength necessary to make another serious attempt at escape. He does not even make it to the door. Wesley rewards this attempt with a dislocated right arm. Matt knows this, for Wesley rather plainly and matter-of-factly informs the vigilante of this as several of Fisk’s goons hold him steady, before wrenching Matt’s arm back and around until the sinews scream and his shoulder gives with a sickening pop.

That is somehow a smaller hurt than Fisk’s rather conspicuous absence afterwards; Matt huddles in his corner, hugging his arm close and desperately trying to shut that out.

Hours or perhaps days pass in a blur of hollow, empty pain without Fisk or Wesley, but, then, there is chaos. So many sounds, so much movement, all bursting into Matt’s solitary, silent world. It is too much, between the myriad of agonies of his body and the explosion of sensory information as men come bursting into his cell. The thundering footsteps, pounding hearts, and bellowing voices shouting words he does not hear or process grate harshly against Matt’s frayed senses and nerves, sending him pressing deeper into his corner.

However, amid the confusion and the blinding array of sensory information, something stands out, tugging Matt back to reality and forcing him to focus. It is a scent – an extremely familiar one. It is the smell of cheaply manufactured uniforms and even cheaper dry cleaning, despite the choking stench of several varieties of laundry detergent. Matt knows it well because all the uniforms of the NYPD have the same stink lingering beneath any attempt to erase or otherwise conceal the smell.

He cracks a faint smile before the first hand touches him, before he even realizes that the hand’s owner is speaking directly to him. “We need to get you up.”

Matt nods, swallowing an abrupt thickness swelling in his throat. Rescue. He has dreamed of it, but Matt never actually anticipated that anyone would come for him in this dark, awful place. Yet, here it is. He yields into the hands that haul him up, trying his best to help where he can.

As a second set of strong hands joins the first, something hisses in the back of his mind, like a static haze. It unnerves him strangely, but Matt cannot name the sensation. Instead, Matt tells himself it is because of the rescue. It is the adrenaline, the excitement, the sudden influx of stimuli, Matt insists again and again. Any number of explanations cross his mind all at once, but none of them ever truly take root firmly.

_“Ask yourself, Mattie, should they even be moving you? Or should they be calling for EMS?”_

It knocks the air right out of Matt’s lungs, even before he hears the ticking of that damned watch, and he reflexively recoils from their touch. Real cops would be calling for help, or at least giving him a cursory check before risking moving a man in as obviously bad of shape as Matt is. Those hands just clamp down tighter upon him. He tugs away harder, twisting, but these strangers are stronger than him. They laugh haughtily at his pathetic struggles as they drag him up, forcing Matt’s hands over his head to hang him once more by the wrists.

When Wesley speaks, it is with the cool confidence of a true businessman. “Gentlemen, may I present the erstwhile Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“He doesn’t look like much.”

Wesley circles among the many strangers, making it difficult for Matt to track him or anyone for that matter. “Strength is not always measured in mass. You’ve seen the evidence my employer has provided. There is no question; this is the one. The man who made you all look like fools. The man who almost cost you your jobs and your lives. The Devil himself, in a manner of speaking.”

Matt feels his whole world tilting with realization. Crooked cops, like something out of a trashy crime pulp or mob movie. He had encountered a few of them on patrol, but Matt never imagined any of them had any direct connection to Fisk. Now, he cannot deny it, nor can he deny the retaliation the vigilante knows is to come from their hands for what he did to them.

He focuses, straining to find the ticking of that awful watch and its wearer. “Please… please don’t do this.”

Wesley draws close and whispers in Matt’s good ear. “I’m not doing anything you didn’t earn.” Wesley turns away, once again addressing the strangers. “Now, you know the conditions set by my employer. Nothing permanently damaging, and nothing on the face. He’s yours.”

Wesley’s watch ticking drifts away, and Matt calls for it. “Wesley! Wesley, don’t do this!”

But Wesley is already gone, leaving Matt with these strangers, these wolves in sheep clothing, sneering and snickering as the businessman goes. When the first rubber bullet hits him square in the chest, sending his heart stuttering and his lungs sputtering for air, they cheer and hoot. A few more strike his chest, but none are quite so shocking as the first. When one catches his abdomen and makes Matt gag against an empty stomach, hacking up nothing, they whoop like their team just scored the game-winning point. On and on it goes, until Matt loses count, until he tastes blood.

Then, mercifully, there is nothing but black void.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

When Jessica Jones finally calls him into her office, Foggy assumes it is to share information, pictures, something. Instead, it is to refund his money. Foggy stares stupidly at the woman and the envelope for an impossibly and embarrassingly long moment.

“You’re giving up?”

Jones sighs heavily. “I didn’t say that.”

Foggy looks down to the envelope and the cash inside. “So why are you giving me this?”

Jones fiddles with an empty bottle of bourbon on her desk. “Didn’t feel right taking your money.”

“I don’t….”

Jones winces and leans across the desk. “I couldn’t take your money when it seems like there’s nothing to find.” Foggy’s lower lip quivers uncertainly, and Jones swears. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking do that.” She shakes her head. “Look, when I find something, you can pay me then.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Consciousness is a slippery, fickle thing. Every time Matt reaches for it, it seems to slip away. Nothing remains firm, everything remaining in a blank, desperate haze. Even when someone releases him from his bindings and eases him down, Matt cannot be certain it is real, especially when he thinks he smells Fisk. He feels disjointed from the agonies of his body, unable to control anything, make sense of anything.

But Fisk’s deep voice echoes through the muddle. “Oh, Mr. Murdock, when will you learn? Your salvation comes from me, and from me alone.”

And, then, the world fades away once more.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx


	4. Months

**To Catch the Devil**

**Months**

Eventually, Foggy is forced to face reality. Even at Matt’s severely discounted rate, Foggy cannot continue to afford the rent for two apartments and for the offices of Nelson & Murdock along with all the associated utilities and added costs. He considers all of the options carefully, but none of them are reasonable in the face of the abrupt lack of evidence or clues to Matt’s disappearance. He spends a week considering the matter, worrying at his own nails before coming to the only rational conclusion.

With a heavy heart, Foggy elects to let Matt’s apartment go.

After weighing all of the options, it is the only one that makes any sense. No one is living there; the space is just going to waste. A part of Foggy takes heart in the knowledge that Matt’s apartment sat on the market for months and months before Matt snapped it up. No one wants to live beside a glaring billboard, so Foggy knows it will very likely be waiting for Matt even if it takes years. Matt’s limited furnishings will also be much easier to cram into his office for storage.

When explains this and tells her he needs a few days off, Karen dutifully offers to help Foggy pack up Matt’s things, but Foggy declines. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like abusing her position as a secretary. It also already feels like violating Matt’s very dear privacy, and Foggy considers himself to be a close friend. Foggy cannot imagine how Matt would feel at the thought of Karen rummaging through his things. These are the lies that Foggy tells himself when he knows the real reason is that the lawyer knows he will just be a sad, soppy mess.

She hugs him before he goes. “Call me if you need anything. I do mean anything.”

Foggy tries to put on a smile. “Just need you to hold the fort.”

“You know where to reach me if you change your mind,” Karen offers.

Foggy thanks her, but they both know he will not call. Instead, he works slowly, painfully through Matt’s things, boxing everything up over the course of a few days. He labels each box with a black Sharpie. Then, Foggy fiddles with Matt’s Braille label maker for a long time before looking it up on Youtube so he can make Braille labels. Foggy tells himself it is so Matt can move himself back in when he comes back. Foggy carefully totes each box back to the office and stacks them neatly in Matt’s office. Somehow, Josie gets word of it and sends a couple of the more burly regulars over to help move the bigger things like the couch and bed to the office.

By the third day, Matt’s apartment is empty, utterly barren. Foggy goes over every bit of it twice to make sure he has not missed anything. It is a good thing he does, because it is only then that Foggy remembers the locked crawlspace beneath the stairs. Foggy had put it off time and time again, so much that it nearly slipped his mind. Foggy calls a former client that owes him a favor, a locksmith who had been falsely accused of burglary; the locksmith easily removes the lock and leaves without a word otherwise.

It is fortunate for Foggy that he selfishly demanded to do this alone, for the contents of the crawlspace are too damning to be real. He closes and locks the trunk as soon as he realizes who belongs to the black clothes, scarf, and baton like weapons, no matter how incongruous it is with the image of Matt Murdock the blind lawyer. He has only ever seen such things in the rare surveillance footage of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen in action. Foggy reels for a moment, lurching between uncertainty and self-righteous anger before bringing the trunk back to his apartment. Then, he makes himself a stiff drink and stares intently at the trunk for hours, trying to determine what exactly to do with the contents.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Steve Rogers knows he is a decidedly public figure. He has seen his own face plastered on enough newspapers, magazines, and propaganda posters through the decades to know most of America is likely familiar with his face. It is flattering, to be sure, but Steve is always somewhat embarrassed by all the attention and adoration. He only became a costumed hero because there was no one else with his unique abilities, not for the glory. However, his mother raised him to be more polite than to refuse.

He runs in the morning, in the predawn glow. That is when the park is the emptiest, devoid of any gawkers and onlookers. Steve knows he needs only ask, and Tony would provide him with a treadmill of his choice so that he might run in the privacy of the Tower. However, Steve has never much fancied that sort of thing. Running in the open air offers some measure of peace and calm that is often elusive to him, likely because it is the one thing that has remained unchanged by the ages.

Ages ago, when he first reluctantly relocated from Washington to New York, the local paparazzi had been nearly ravenous for photographs of Steven Rogers – _the_ Captain America. They had clamored at the entry to Stark Tower, all vying for the best photo. They often attempted to run after the supersoldier on his way to the park, but few could keep up and still carry their bulky cameras with their ludicrously long lenses. They staked out prime locations along his path through the park, each hungry for the best photo. It had been unnerving to see them so desperate for something – _anything_ – to sell to the tabloids. Eventually, all but a few extremely dedicated paparazzi gave up their quest. Steve largely assumes this is because there are only so many magazines and tabloids willing to pay for what amounts to the same photos of him running the same path in the same, tired clothes. He sometimes wonders how much the photographers made selling their pictures; it must not have been much, considering how rarely he spies a single paparazzi anymore.

That morning is strange, however, as Steve finds he is not alone. Someone else is following him through the park, rather doggedly. Steve could probably hear him without any enhancements. His tail is a heavier fellow - not fat, but certainly not as lean or athletic as anyone with any business keeping up with him. His shoes sound different, as though they are not build for running. Steve continues on his way, but he keeps an ear fixed on the sounds of the other runner as the stranger cuts loudly through the underbrush in a vain attempt at a shortcut to keep up.

Steve slows to what is a modest jog for him, allowing his follower a chance to catch up. Whoever it is, the soldier knows they mean him no real harm. If they were a threat, they would not be so clumsy to follow so loudly nor so poorly prepared. No. A credible threat to Captain America would be better trained, better armed, and certainly not alone; HYDRA at least taught him taught.

He pauses when the trail comes to the side of the Pond, staring out over the shimmering waters with a sigh before calling, “You know, not many people would be foolish enough to try to get the jump on me.”

The voice that answers behind him is timid yet earnest. “I wouldn’t….. I wasn’t trying to get the jump on you.”

“You were following me,” Steve corrects firmly, folding his hands across his chest and resolutely refusing to look behind him yet.

“I’m sorry,” the man behind him offers. “I am.”

There is a sorrow to the stranger’s voice, a wistfulness that Steve recognizes almost instantly. It screams of honesty and of pain, but Steve grits his teeth against it. HYDRA and the discovery of its infiltration of SHIELD has left him wary, distrustful in a way that sickens him. Steve wants to believe in the good of people, but this world he awoke to has tarnished and worn his hope.

The man goes on, “I just…. I didn’t know where to turn.”

Steve nods slowly, understanding now. It is only natural that people come to him in their most desperate of needs. Tony is too brash, too cocky and sharp tongued. Bruce maintains a decidedly low profile, hiding from public eye for civilian safety. Natasha and Clint avoid public scrutiny as seems second nature for a pair of spies. Sam is still a relatively unknown agent to the public, hence why he spends his days hunting for Bucky while Steve stays back in Manhattan. And Thor? Thor is very often off world. By default, Steve has become the face of the Avengers, and this is not the first time someone has come to him seeking aid of some form. The all look to him like a God, and it feels like sin.

Rogers sighs and heaves the words that have become all too practiced to him. “Depending on your situation, I can refer you to any number of professional agencies.”

 “It’s not like that,” the stranger insists, his voice cracking. “I can’t go to the cops, the feds. No. They wouldn’t understand.” Something prickles at the fine hairs on the nape of Steve’s neck, but the man continues, “Only someone like you could… I don’t know….” Fear wrings in the man’s voice. “Can we please speak somewhere in private?”

Steve finally turns to chastise the man and finds he is surprised by the stranger. He had expected a harrowed person, battered or hollowed like all the others who have come to him. Instead, Steve finds a young man, standing tall and straight. His long, blonde hair is straight and trimmed neatly to his jawline. His eyes are piercing and determined. Most surprisingly of all, the stranger wears perfectly pressed slacks, a tidy button-down shirt, silk tie, and neat jacket. He carries a leather tote, large enough to fit several folios. He is a businessman of some kind, clearly a professional, and the sort of man who seems quite capable of handling his own affairs. Steve instantly knows that whatever has driven this man to him must certainly be well beyond the abilities of any normal man.

He must be expecting a refusal, for the man pleads, “Just hear me out. Please. Only someone like you could help.”

“What do you mean, ‘someone like me?’” Steve demands, folding his arms across his chest.

“Y’know…..” The stranger gestures to him vaguely and, then, as if to clarify, pantomimes holding a shield.

“Alright,” Steve concedes, holding out a hand. “You know my name, but my mother taught me better than to forget my manners. Steve Rogers.”

The man jumps to shake his hand, his grip firm but comfortable, practiced. “Foggy. Foggy Nelson.”

“Come on with me, Mr. Nelson.”

Nelson walks at his side silently back to the Tower. Steve does not stare, but he does dart an occasional glance to the stranger. Nelson presses his lips together the entire time. He is either not prepared to speak to Rogers, or he has something so inflammatory to say that it cannot be risked in public. It piques Steve’s curiosity.

At the Tower, Steve wordlessly leads Nelson to the elevators and takes him up to the upper levels that have played home to the Avengers. Most of the lucky souls to visit the Tower have stared in awe, gasping in amazement at the lavish sights and incredible technology. Nelson has eyes for none of that. He keeps his gaze fixed upon the floor until Steve sits him down in a small, plain room furnished only with a table and a few chairs.

For a long time, they sit across from one another, neither saying a word. Steve allows the silence to span between them. He spent seventy years in a dark, cold quiet of the ice; he can wait for as long as Nelson needs to compose his thoughts. The soldier knows the longer it takes Nelson, the more complicated it must be.

Finally, Nelson speaks. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to hear me out before you say anything. Promise me that?”

“I can’t make any promises until I know what exactly we’re dealing with,” Steve answers flatly.

Nelson nods, little more than a bob of his head. “Okay.” He draws a deep breath, clearly steeling his nerves enough to continue. “This is kind of a lot to swallow, but I want you to know that I’m not crazy. I’m a lawyer. My partner, Matt, is missing, and I think he is either somehow connected with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen….” Nelson draws a deep breath before blurting out, “Or he _is_ the him.”

Steve has heard of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as much as any other New Yorker. “What makes you think that?”

“May I?” Nelson asks, pointing to his bag. When Steve nods, Nelson begins to pull item after incriminating item from the tote, setting each piece of the humble uniform that is unmistakably that of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and announcing, “Because I found all of this in his apartment.”

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Tony and Steve stand outside the small room for some time, watching the video feed provided to them of the room on a tablet, courtesy of FRIDAY. Inside the room, Nelson continues to wait and stew. He sits at the desk, nervously bobbing his foot, but nothing more. Nelson makes no move to survey his surroundings, to bug the place, nothing suspect. He simply awaits Steve’s return.

“What makes you think he’s telling the truth?” Tony questions stiffly.

“He brought the uniform.”

Tony scowls intensely. “That doesn’t mean anything. He could have ordered all that junk off of eBay or Amazon.”

“All in his friend’s sizes?”

“You’re too trusting,” Tony mutters as he rubs the back of his neck. “He claims it’s all in his friend’s sizes, but we don’t know that. That’s not evidence.”

Steve shrugs. “Call it a hunch, then.”

The inventor fiddles with the tablet and pulls up a file on Matthew Murdock. “You’re telling me a blind man is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? A _blind_ man? Guy’s pulling your leg, Cap.”

“We’ve seen weirder,” the supersoldier counters smartly. “Besides, if the guy does all his work at night, does he really need to see?”

“Point.” Tony rubs his chin, contemplatively. “Alright, alright. So, let’s say this guy is telling the truth, for argument’s sake. His buddy’s been missing for what? Six months now? Seven?”

“Ten,” Steve admits grimly, already well aware of the argument about to be made.

Tony must see it, for he gives a wag of his finger and says, “See, you already know where I’m going with this.” He sighs heavily. “If this Murdock really was the Devil, then chances are he ran into the wrong guys and is somewhere on the bottom of the Hudson.”

Steve nods. He’s not stupid, never was. He knows just how improbable it is that Matthew Murdock is still alive if what everything Nelson has told him is true. Yet, Steve has seen countless improbable things in his day. He thinks of finding Bucky in that labor camp in the war and, then, again, behind that black mask. Steve considers the impossible odds that he should have washed up on the side of the Potomac without Bucky’s help and how unlikely it would be that Bucky would give that help considering how he had been on the helicarrier.

Steve smirks. “Yeah, but that means there’s a chance he’s still alive, for however small that chance is.”

“And he really thinks Wilson Fisk – the _philanthropist_ \- is holding him captive?”

Steve shifts his weight, uncomfortable before Stark’s scrutiny and suspicion, despite their friendship. “Yes. He’s got a pretty convincing argument.”

“He’s a lawyer; he makes convincing arguments for a living,” Tony says with a roll of his eyes. “Does he have any actual evidence?”

“Well, no.”

Tony sighs. “Call Nat.”

“What?”

The inventor repeats himself, much more certainly. “Romanov. Call her.” When Steve just stares at him, Tony goes on, “She’s been checking into all the ‘enhanced’ humans after dumping all their secrets. If there’s even a shred evidence to corroborate this guy’s story, Nat’s got it.”

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Matt is falling; he knows this. His body is giving in, and his mind is not far behind. He cannot even hear Stick’s voice anymore. A part of the vigilante knows he should be pleased to not hear Stick’s sharp tongue in his mind, but it leaves him lonely, vulnerable. He _misses_ Stick’s presence in his mind, even if the man had only ever been a hallucination.

In his desperation, his deep aching and longing, Matt leans into Fisk’s warm touch and finally whispers between dried, cracked lips, “Why are you doing this?”

Fisk’s radiant smile is almost palpable through it all. “Because, Mr. Murdock, in you, I see great potential.”

The answer terrifies Matt, because he knows it won’t be long know until he succumbs to Fisk’s manipulations, before he is begging to serve Fisk for some hint of reprieve. Fisk will never let him go, never let up, not until Matt is his pet, his puppet. There is a startling clarity to behold in all this. With that clarity comes the knowledge that Matt can never allow that to happen, not if it means giving his own life.

There is something oddly liberating about knowing that you are going to die.

xxx

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Natasha sounds somewhat surprised by their call, but she answers just the same. She listens in silence as Steve explains his seeming stalker of the day and the evidence provided by Mr. Nelson. She says nothing as Tony cites all the arguments and rationale against Nelson’s theory. The assassin even allows the two to bicker between one another for a brief moment before silencing both of them by simply stating the fact.

“He’s telling the truth. Matthew Murdock is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

xxx

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In his childhood, Matt had been fascinated by the saints. Each of the Catholic saints has their various areas of interest or focus for patronage. For example, St. Francis of Assisi is the patron saint of animals and the natural environment, often depicted with doves, birds, and even a wolf at his feet, yet he is also the patron saint of Italy, merchants, stowaways, and tapestry workers. Matt had been intrigued by the multifaceted aspects of each saint, dutifully studying to which saint one prayed for what cause. When Matt first arrived at the orphanage, the selection of Braille books had been limited to school texts, a copy of the King James Bible, prayer books, and an entire folio on the saints. Learning about the saints helped to pass the time, to distract Matt in the awkward time when none of the other children would play with him.

It had not been until a few months after his arrival that new Braille books arrived – mostly religious in content – and Matt learned the grotesque truth about the saints; the vast majority of saints were martyrs. Most saints died in horrifying, brutal manners to become saints. Pope Saint Peter died of crucifixion, supposedly nailed upside down, as he did not feel worthy to be crucified in the same manner as Christ. Saint Sebastian was clubbed to death. Saint George of Lydda was lacerated on a wheel of swords multiple times before eventually being decapitated. The violence had disgusted Matt and ended any interest in studying or praying to the saints.

Now, however, Matt cannot help but pray in the quiet, dark of his cell to Saint Jude the Apostle. Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. It seems fitting. Matt needs and will take any help he can get if he is going to end this before Fisk’s madness can go any further. He fervently mouths the words, unable to speak, afraid of turning back or changing his mind. Matt is not even aware of the tears threatening until after they have spilled, until small barely constrained sobs turn into a full blown crying jag. The more he prays, the more it crashes over him, ripping Matt apart at the seams.

The words tumble over and over again in his mind until Matt’s mind drifts back to the nothingness of unconsciousness.

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“Alright, Mr. Nelson, we’ve heard what you have to say, and we’ve had a little chat about it,” Tony states as they return to the lawyer.

“You’re going to help, right?”

Steve sits across from Nelson and frowns as he puts his thoughts together. “We’re going to help, but we have to be careful. You have no proof that Wilson Fisk is keeping your friend against his will. We have no evidence, no warrant, and no probable cause.”

Nelson’s face drops. “You’re not going to help.”

Tony pipes up once more. “That’s not what he said.”

“Then, what are you saying?” Nelson demands, his eyes flashing with emotion.

“That we need more information,” Steve answers sternly. “Look, we believe you. But, if we go rushing into this, and we’re wrong, it could be very bad for all of us. Wilson Fisk is a well-respected man and a philanthropist. If you’re wrong, and Fisk is innocent, then you could put the Avengers into serious jeopardy.”

Nelson glares venomously. “And if I’m right?”

“If you’re right, and we go barging in without any intel, there’s a good chance Fisk will either move your friend or just have him executed,” the inventor informs him.

When Steve sees the color and life drain from the lawyer’s face, he quickly adds, “But we won’t let that happen if we can avoid it.”

Nelson nods slowly, as though numb. “Okay. Okay. What do we need to do?”

Tony grins mischievously. “You leave everything to us.”

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When he wakes to an empty cell, Matt stirs with resolve and a renewed mission, his head calm and clear the first time in so very long – albeit still aching somewhat from crying. He surveys the cell as much as possible from his spot in the corner, extending his battered senses as far as his exhausted mind and body will allow. Matt is searching for something, anything to help him now that he knows what he must do. Matt must end himself before Fisk can break him fully.

A part him of – the Catholic part – shrieks against this, railing in the back of his mind. Suicide is a mortal sin. It has been grilled into him no different than his name. It is an insult to God. Yet, another part of him knows that so many more people will likely die if he does break and bend to Fisk’s will. Matt cannot stomach the thoughts of what Fisk will do with him, or have him do onto others.

Yet, for however much he searches, there is nothing in the cell to aid Matt, meaning he’ll just have to get creative.

xxx

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It is a lovely, sunny, nearly cloudless day when Ironman suit falls from the sky and crashes down to the lavishly appointed patio of a penthouse apartment with Tony Stark inside. He lands decidedly gracelessly in a heap of metal and shattered concrete before tumbling right through a planter and splashing down into a pond. There, Tony sits for a moment like a small child having a petty huff before exiting the suit, only to step into ankle deep water.

“Aw, that’s just great,” he groans as the water soaks into his shoes.

An awkward voice calls politely from the side, “Um…. Can I help you?”

Tony turns and puts on his very best charm. “Oh, good morning!” He strides out of the pond towards the bald man in the sharp suit. “Sorry about the….. uh….. surprise visit.” He extends a hand formally, “Tony Stark.”

“I know,” the man says uncomfortably as he shakes Tony’s hand. “I’m fairly certain the entire world would recognize you.”

Tony smirks sheepishly. “Yeah, well, there is that.” He glances back at the carnage left in the wake of the Ironman suit’s impromptu landing. “Can I have your name so I know who to make the check out to?”

“Fisk. Wilson Fisk.”

“It’s an honor. I’ve heard all about your work restoring this part of the City.” Tony nods and shakes the man’s massive hand. “Mr. Fisk, may I extend my sincere apologies for the unexpected visit and ugly landing. I promise, I’m usually much more graceful. And, I assure you, I’ll be paying for all the damages.”

The big man looks over Tony’s shoulder to survey the battered suit lying in the water with a raised brow. “I should hope.”

Tony cringes as he looks to the damage path as well. “And I’ll be making a sizeable donation to the Fisk Foundation, naturally.”

Fisk chuckles now, shaking his head. “While that is greatly appreciated, I assure you, it’d not necessary considering all the charitable works I hear you’re responsible for, outside of your heroic work.” The big man frowns at the suit. “Are you alright? Is there anyone I need to call?”

“An Uber maybe? I think the landing took out the flight systems.” He yells to the suit, “FRIDAY? What’s the word?”

The artificial intelligence responds immediately, “Propulsion systems are non-functioning, sir.”

“Impressive,” Fisk remarks.

Tony shrugs. “Yeah, well, it would be if the new upgrade I was taking for a test drive worked right.” He waves dismissively at the suit. “It’s funny what a little bug can do.”

“I’d wager,” Fisk says dryly, making Tony wonder if the man is teasing him. “Are you sure you are alright?”

“Me? I’m good.” Tony stares at the suit for a long moment before realizing he should be asking the same. “Oh, shit. Where are my manners? Are you okay? I didn’t hurt anyone on the way down, did I?”

Fisk shakes his head. “No, no. No one was out here when you…. arrived.”

“Oh, good,” Tony sighs dramatically. “I’m sorry. I should have asked that firstly.” He bumps his head with his fist. “You’ll have to forgive my lack a manners – little shell shocked – and my imposition. FRIDAY should be calling for a pick-up. Let me just grab my stuff, and I’ll be out of your hair. Please, send the estimate to my offices as soon as you have it. No. Better yet, I’ll send out a crew later today.”

Fisk turns away, clearly turned off by Tony’s antics. “Take your time, Mr. Stark.”

As Fisk retreats to the quiet of his penthouse apartment. Tony grins and returns to the suit to await pick-up. He shakes his head in chagrin at his own landing and the sight of the broken, twisted suit sitting in the fountain. It is fortunate that Fisk does not seem to pay too much attention to the fashion trends that are the Ironman suits, otherwise he might know that this is a suit easily three or four generations old – entirely expendable to Tony Stark’s mind.

When a Quinjet does arrive for Tony and the suit, no one is there to notice a few, small pieces of metal sliding away from the crash site.

xxx

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It comes to him like a lightning bolt from God, a direct answer to his prayer. A gun. Wesley has a gun. It is tucked beneath his suit, secured in a leather holster. It has always been there, Matt knows, but, as Wesley has never seemed likely to draw a firearm, the vigilante has never really given it a second thought until now. Now, the smell of chordite and the taste of the metal come as a welcome sigh to Matt’s shredded psyche.

He cries even before Wesley can raise a fist against him, bright, hot tears coursing down his cheeks. Those tears give Wesley pause, stopping the businessman before he can do anything to Matt. He seems to consider the sobs coming from the quivering, pathetic wretch of a man. That is alright; Wesley does not know that these are not tears of fright but tears of joy.

Matt knows what he has to do; he just has to get close enough to Wesley to get his hands on the gun.

xxx

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“What’s going on?” Nelson asks for perhaps the hundredth time.

Tony bristles. He knows the lawyer means well and is just desperate for any information on his friend, any hope. That does not stop the lawyer’s hovering and incessant asking from being utterly, maddeningly irritating. They have been hovering high above Fisk’s penthouse for at least an hour in a cloaked Quinjet, but Tony has already stopped counting Nelson’s questions – even if Nelson is actually at the Tower and only present in holographic format.

Thankfully, Steve swoops in to his rescue, “Mr. Nelson, please, let him work.”

“I’m sorry,” the lawyer mutters, thoroughly chastised.

Tony mouths a thank-you in Steve’s direction and returns his focus to directing the miniscule tracking bugs sloughed off of the suit during the crash through Fisk’s property. His fingers fly over his tablet, directing the bugs to disperse and search. Steve nods but says nothing. He hardly understands what Tony is doing anyway.

“We’re in,” Tony announces. “Starting search grid.”

xxx

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Wesley does not always bind and truss Matt these days. Matt knows this is because Wesley does not have to tie him; he is too weak to fight too much anymore. That is oddly a good thing. It won’t take much to finish this. As Wesley works him over, Matt waits patiently for his opening. Wesley will have to be close, very close for Matt to have any chance of success, and the vigilante knows he will only have one chance.

When Wesley pauses after a series of brutal punches to Matt’s ribs to catch his breath, Matt whispers the Lord’s Prayer. It is not nearly loud enough for Wesley to hear, but it is enough to pique the man’s curiosity. Matt knows this. He lies there and waits, panting through his teeth. Wesley steps closer and crouches beside him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Wesley taunts him.

Matt whispers again, really just hissing wordlessly through his teeth.

“Once more, please,” Wesley requests primly as he leans closer and closer.

Matt reaches up and curls his hand about the butt of the gun and pulls. However, he is weak and the gun is still secured in the holster. Of course it would be. Wesley jerks back in surprise, pulling back against Matt’s hold of the pistol and shoving at his arm. Matt squeezes firmly around the grip, holding it with all his might as Wesley’s hand comes slamming down on his arm and twists. In his surprise, Wesley gets unbalanced and falls unceremoniously onto his butt on the floor, giving Matt enough leverage to wrench the gun from the holster.

However, victory is short lived as Wesley pounces upon him and grabs at the gun. Matt clenches his teeth and fights with all it is worth. Adrenaline crashes through his system like a tidal flood, giving him the boost he needs to struggle. It gives him strength where there had been none before.

The gun goes off in a deafening crack once, then twice.

xxx

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“Shit,” Tony breathes, leaping from the pilot’s seat and barking, “FRIDAY, take over.”

“What is it?”

Tony climbs into his suit, slamming the face plate down. “Shots fired in there.”

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Matt cradles the gun closely, desperately. The slug in his gut aches and throbs with every beat of his heart, with every tiny, involuntary shift of his muscles, but he forces that down to focus instead on the cold, blood slicked metal in his hands. His fingers and hands quake from the agony and quite possibly shock, but Matt manages to pull the clip. A firearm of any kind feels alien and unnatural in his hands, but Matt is adept enough to figure that he has two bullets left in the clip and another chambered.

Beside him, Wesley is making grotesque, gurgling noises and twitching. Matt wishes he would stop, just stop. He had not necessarily been expecting to survive the fight. So, when the gun had gone off and the bullet hit his gullet, it had come with a surge of relief to know that this would be the end – technically not suicide, right? Yet, Wesley had given one, last jerk, pulling away without care, and Matt had somehow pulled down on the trigger in his shock, hitting the businessman in the upper chest judging by the awful liquid and wheezing sounds.

Matt clamps his hands down over his ears and shakes his head fervently. This is not what he intended. He had planned to bait Wesley into shooting him cleanly. It could have been over quickly, easily. It should have been painless. Such a sharp deviation from the plan leaves Matt too shocked to act, too frozen by terror.

Worse is the paralyzing fear of what Fisk will do to him now.

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The penthouse is quiet and still when Tony and Steve smash through the glass doors and right into the apartment. That does not last long when Fisk charges out of nowhere at them. Steve swings instinctively with his shield, batting Fisk away. However, Fisk had been prepared, armored most likely beneath his impeccably bespoke suit, and he swiftly recovers to flee.

Steve catches Tony’s hesitation and shouts, “Go! I’ll deal with Fisk!”

Tony nods and bolts. “You heard him, FRIDAY. Scan the building for anything usual.”

“Working,” the artificial intelligence responds. “Two floors down. I’ve got two bodies with unstable life signs.”

Tony does not waste time with stairs or elevators. He simply looks down, through a schematic provided to him by FRIDAY’s analysis of the building. It is clear of any humans, so he fires his repulsors at full blast. The floor beneath him crumbles and falls away, creating a hole just the right size for him to drift down to a lower floor. FRIDAY directs him, calling directions at necessary until he comes to what seems like a concrete bunker with a metal locking door befitting an Eli Roth movie.

“There,” FRIDAY instructs knowingly.

Tony carefully shoves open the hefty steel door, gasping at the sight spread before him. The room is small and barre; a cell. In the center, a well-dressed man lies still, dying as the blood sluggishly pours from his chest. FRIDAY displays his vitals in the HUD as they flat line. In the corner, a pale, naked man huddles. Murdock. He is holding out a gun, aiming with a shaking arm towards Tony, but the inventor doubts Murdock even understands what is going on. He is trembling visibly, terrified; his sightless eyes stare widely with blind panic.

Tony takes a step forward, confidant that Murdock will not shoot him and unpleasantly surprised when a bullet clangs off the suit. He redresses his thoughts and quickly crosses the room to Murdock. Tony flinches when a second bullet hits the suit, but, then, to his mounting horror, Murdock jams the muzzle of the pistol under his chin.

“Shit, no!”

Tony springs and grabs the gun, pulling away before Murdock squeezes the trigger. The bullet fortunately misses, whizzing by the blind man’s head, clipping his right ear, and imbedding its self in the ceiling above. Murdock crumples forward, perhaps collapsing, and Tony circles his arms about him. Tony embraces Murdock to keep him from doing anything else to harm himself and also to give himself a second to process what has just happened.

“Shh, shh,” Tony croons, uncertain of what to say. “You’re okay. You’ve safe. I’ve got you.”

But Murdock shakes his head and tries to pull away. “No. Please. Not again.”

Tony furrows his brow, uncertain of what to say or do to comfort the man or to respond. FRIDAY flashes a warning about Murdock’s respiration and heartrate, but Tony is not the kind of man like Bruce who could make sense of that enough to know what to do. He knows Murdock is hyperventilating, gulping at the air like a fish out of water and grasping fruitlessly at the suit, but it all has him struck dumb.

“C’mon,” Tony breathes, sliding his arms under Murdock’s slip of a body to cradle him and lift him. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“No,” Murdock gasps between futile breaths, sobbing opening, “Just leave me.”

Tony’s heart absently breaks for the man, but, as he lifts the broken lawyer, all the fight goes out of Murdock. When he looks down, it seems like Murdock has passed out, and, now, Tony sees why. There is a large, unmistakable hole in Murdock’s side wreathed by a faint, black halo that is slowly oozing blood. Tony swears to himself. He races back to the penthouse patio and rockets off, back to Stark Tower. Steve can fend for himself, but Murdock does not have the time to spare.

The flight back is not long, but Tony still growls an order to the prone form in his arms. “Don’t you die on me, now. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

xxx

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Steve loses Fisk after a short chase, but that does not matter. Not anymore. They will find Fisk again, Steve knows. And, even if they don’t, Steve knows Tony will turn over any evidence to the proper authorities, albeit without anything that might incriminate Murdock as a vigilante. Sooner or later, Fisk will get caught. The only thing that matters is Murdock.

The Quinjet picks up Steve and whisks him back to the Tower under FRIDAY’s steady control. Through the whole flight back, FRIDAY relays a continuous stream of updates on Murdock’s condition and assessments. Steve does not understand all of it, but he knows none of it is any good news. Steve’s heart sinks with each measurement and update. Murdock is in critical condition at best, and the Avengers had delayed a rescue to make sure Nelson’s theories held weight.

When the Quinjet touches down once more, Steve asks, “FRIDAY, does Mr. Nelson know?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Steve sighs. “Where is he?”

“In the lounge, awaiting an update.”

Steve nods. “Guess I better give him one.”

“I wish there was better news,” FRIDAY murmurs, a hint of what be sympathy or empathy in her synthetic voice.

“So do I.”

Steve heads right to the lounge and finds Nelson there. The lawyer eagerly jumps to his feet at the sound of Steve’s return, but, upon catching sight of the supersoldier’s expression, Nelson seems to melt.

“Is Matt….” Nelson cannot seem to articulate it, but Steve knows what he means.

“He’s alive,” Steve blurts out. “But he’s in bad shape.”

“Can I see him?”

FRIDAY answers for Steve. “Medical personnel are working to get Mr. Murdock stable.”

“What does that mean?” Nelson moans.

“That’s computer speak for she’ll let us know as soon as the docs will let anyone in,” Steve translates. “She’ll keep us posted.”

But Nelson does not seem to hear him anyway.

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After dropping Murdock off in the medical wing and the capable hands of his medical team and a message out to Dr. Helen Cho, Tony immediately retreats to the penthouse so he can breathe. There, he pours himself a shot and gulps it down, not tasting a dram of the liquor. He downs a second and a third right behind that before slumping down against the bar.

Murdock tried to kill himself.

It has shaken Tony to the core, the image of Murdock pressing the gun to his chin seared into his brain. Tony knows that desperation all too well. He remembers the cold chill of the cave and the dull ache of the freshly implanted electromagnet socket. He had been driven to the edge, much like Murdock, waiting for the Ten Rings to either kill him or let him die by preventing him from recharging the magnet keeping him alive. However, Murdock had put the gun to his own head; Tony cannot imagine that kind of need.

And he had almost succeeded right in front of Tony’s eyes.

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End file.
